


Moving On

by shell



Series: Going Under [4]
Category: Hard Core Logo, Homicide: Life on the Street
Genre: M/M, Series, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-02-17
Updated: 2001-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:36:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell/pseuds/shell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill and Tim deal with the aftermath of everything that happened.  Some discussion of violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to the usual suspects. Comes after State Secrets.

The weeks after we get back from Baltimore and Chicago are pretty busy. Bill's in the studio every day, recording the new album. Sometimes I go with him, but he gets a little self-conscious when I'm there, especially when they're working on one of the songs he wrote, so usually I stay home. One is called "Adena's Song," which they're planning on releasing as the first single. It's a duet between Bill and Chelle, and the combination of his rough voice, her beautiful one, the bluesy music, and the words, sometimes mournful, sometimes angry--it's a fucking incredible song.

I'm still getting lots of phone calls from all sorts of people, although Mark's handling most of them. Some are pretty predictable--NBC keeps calling and asking if we'll be on Will and Grace--but some are a total shock. Like the ones from influential politicians--I've talked with Senators Lieberman, Feinstein, Kennedy, and more, and once even talked with a staffer at the White House. They all seem interested in some sort of photo op. I tell them if they work on passing legislation I support, like gun control, the environment, funding for children's programs, and the like, then I'll be happy to testify before whatever committee they want me to. Bush's office isn't overjoyed, but some of the Democrats promise to keep in touch. I'm not holding my breath.

I spend a lot of the time interviewing candidates for a job I haven't even put a title to yet--assistant doesn't seem quite right. I guess my official title is Director and Chairman of the Board, which so far consists of Bill, Chelle, Kat, and Mary Pembleton, who accepted when Frank turned me down. Alicia, while not on the Board, has been helping to set everything up. Bill's accountant's been a big help, too.

When they first told me about the Fund, when I first accepted the job, I really had no idea what I was getting myself into. I'm just beginning to realize. It sounds so nice and simple when you hear "this program is supported by the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation" when you're listening to Weekend Edition or something. You don't think about 501(c)3 status, how to invest the endowment, how much will go to the endowment and how much to projects, which projects to fund--I haven't felt this ignorant since I started in homicide, and at least then I had a manual that I could pretend had some of the answers.

And the folks I'm interviewing--what a strange mix. Some of them are right out of college, full of ideals and enthusiasm, but without any more idea how to accomplish anything than I have. Some of them are the kind of Hollywood Wives I didn't think actually existed--filthy rich, bored, and extremely flirtatious. And some of them are just desperate for a job, willing to apply for anything. They're the ones I have the hardest time saying no to, but I know they're not what I need.

Finally, I see a resume that looks promising. Gwendolyn Fargut, a recent transplant from Rhode Island, where she was the Executive Director for the Rape Crisis Center. She has a masters in social work, she's worked in non-profits for fifteen years, and she's worked on orienting hotline volunteers. Frankly, she sounds too good to be true, but I call her up and invite her in for an interview.

Bill's actually home when she gets there--apparently they're doing vocal overdubs in the studio today and don't need him until later--so he answers the door. We've turned one of the guest rooms into my office, and I'm engrossed in a web site on non-profit management when he brings her in.

I find myself faced with a tall, imposing, rather fierce looking African American woman, who walks with a cane. I like her immediately. She reminds me of Frank. I talk to her for about five minutes before I decide to hire her.  
It turns out she's moved out here to care for her father, who's dying of prostate cancer. I assure her that flexible hours are not a problem, and she starts the next day, whipping both me and the Fund into shape. She does have a lot in common with Frank--she's tough, honest, ethical, and challenging--but she's also got an incredible warmth and gentleness, and the kind of emotional availability that's absolutely essential for working with abused kids.

Once she's on board, I finally start to get a handle on things. She's a little impatient with me at times, and the office seems mighty small some days, but in general, things are going very well with the Adena Watson Fund. Which is a good thing, because other things go to hell the week after Gwen starts.

Bill's been trucking me out to see the orthopedist every week, and they're finally ready to take off the fixators. I'm scheduled for one more surgery, this time as an outpatient, with a spinal--everything is supposed to be simple and easy compared to what we've already been through. They'll just give me the spinal, and then they'll take out the pins. No big deal.

We both end up wishing we'd just flown back to Phoenix.

****

We manage to finish recording the night before Tim's surgery, late. What with the Lakers game getting out, it takes me almost two hours to get home. We're both a little nervous, too, so by the time we get to sleep, it's after three--and we have to be at the hospital at 7.

Things go from bad to worse the next morning. Now I don't have a whole lot of experience with what I guess you'd call your ordinary, every day hospital. I have a lot of experience of how things should be, which is the way they were at Good Sam in Phoenix. I knew 7 North was a special place while I was there, but I don't think I realized how special until I was faced with the idiocy of a normal hospital.

First is the stupidity of checking in, which takes longer and requires more fucking forms than I had to fill out for my green card. Once they're finally satisfied that a) Tim is who we say he is, b) he is, in fact, scheduled for surgery, and of course, c) he has health insurance, they lead Tim away to "pre-op." I don't see him again for six fucking hours, and I think only then because they're afraid of what I'll do if they make me wait any longer.

He looks awful. He's pale, he's in pain, and he can barely keep his eyes open. And he's getting a fucking blood transfusion. There doesn't seem to be anyone around who either knows or gives a fuck about what's going on, and I'm about to go fucking ballistic.

Tim tells me what little he knows. They had a resident doing the spinal, and the guy botched it--it never took effect, and they ended up giving him a general. He thinks he remembers someone in recovery telling him something about nicking an artery during the surgery, which is why he's getting blood. They're giving him Demerol instead of morphine, and it's making him puke, so he's not using his PCA. Patient controlled analgesia isn't worth a fuck if it makes you puke. He's got a foley in again, and he thinks they're going to keep him a couple days.

Not if I have anything to say about it. I round up a nurse, make sure he's reasonably comfortable, then step outside for a smoke and to use the cell phone. Marilyn picks up on the second ring--I promised her I would let her know how things went, and she's been waiting and worrying. I give her the run-down, and she's none too happy to hear it. She's at the hospital, so she tells me to hold on for a second while she pages Dr. Taggert. A minute later he's on the phone with me, agreeing to accept Tim as a patient if we can get him there safely, although he urges me to work with the staff in California if I can. I get his pager number for the orthopedist here and go back inside.

The nurse doesn't believe me at first when I tell her I need to talk to the chief of orthopedics about a transfer. Once I convince her I'm serious, things start happening. Tim's transferred from recovery to a private room in the VIP area. I'm given a free dinner, told I can spend the night if I want, like they could fucking stop me. His PCA gets switched to morphine, and they give him some Reglan for his nausea. And the chief apologizes to me, tries to explain what happened without sounding like they fucked up, even though we both know they did. I guess the hospital wouldn't like the kind of publicity they'd get if Billy Tallent transferred the FBI hero back to Phoenix because he was getting inferior care in California.

By this point I've run out of steam a little, and Tim's asleep, so I finally agree that we'll stay the night, but only if the docs here do some heavy phone consultations with Taggert, and only if I can take an active role in his care. They're ready to agree to just about anything by now. I even get Tim's new nurse, Sandy, on the phone with Marilyn. I'm getting a lot of dirty looks when they think I can't see, but I don't give a shit--not as long as Tim's getting what he needs.

It's only then that I remember to call Virginia--fortunately she hasn't been too worried, thought the surgery was scheduled a few hours later. She promises to call Frank, and I make a quick call to St. George to let the girls know he's okay. Then I call Billie, and then I fall asleep in the chair next to Tim's bed.

Things get better for awhile after that, but very slowly. Tim ends up staying for another couple nights and getting some antibiotics. He starts some pretty intense physical therapy--first they put him in this contraption that passively flexes his knee--doesn't sound like much, but it's definitely another orthopedic torture device. He does a little weight bearing the day I take him home, but he's still pretty much dependent on the crutches and wheelchair.

For the next month, PT comes to the house every day and works with Tim for at least two hours. At the end of each session, he's soaked in sweat and completely wiped out. But by the end of that first month, he's not using the crutches anymore--just the cane. And he's finally starting to fill out a little, get some muscle back on those long bones of his.

His chest and arms are already in pretty good shape from all the upper body work he's had to do just to get around. He complains about his legs and his ass all the time, but I'm just enjoying the solid feel of him these days, with nothing hooked into his body except me, as often as possible. Yeah, I make him do physical therapy, too, get him sweaty, wipe him out. Mine is much more fun, though.

Gwen's taken over a lot of the day to day management of the Fund, and we've finally gotten some office space for her, Tim, and an increasing number of volunteers. That part of our life, at least, is running smoothly.  
There's more trouble on the horizon, though. Our weekly phone conversations with Ruth and Sarah have gotten pretty stressful. Ruth's gotten even quieter, and Sarah's gotten a lot louder. She tells us every week how much she hates it there. Last week she threatened to run away, but Tim managed to talk her out of it. He also managed to wrangle another visit, this time just for the weekend, over the foster parents' objections. That's not for another couple weeks, though.

Ruth and Sarah still don't know about Tim's application to become their foster parent. It's a pretty dicey situation--different laws in different states, the fact that he's bisexual, plus the fact that he was "married" to them both, although Karen, the lawyer Alicia hooked us up with, is trying to use that to our advantage--show that Tim was actually acting in loco parentis when the girls were living with him. Of course, he's got some positives on his side, too--the fact that he's a fucking national hero, that he's been decorated numerous times as a police officer, that he's heading up the Watson Fund, and that he's got some important people willing to speak up for him.  
Karen says we've got a 50-50 shot at best. Tim doesn't want to say anything to the girls until it's a sure thing, and this whole mess is tearing him up pretty badly. When there's good news, he does pretty well. When he gets off the phone with the girls, or when he hears about some particularly horrific case at the Fund, he gets quiet and has nightmares. He's finally seeing a therapist, but sometimes he comes home from that pretty shook up.

There's also the fact that I'm gone a lot now--we're touring to support the new album. Kat and Chelle understand that I want to spend as much time at home as I can, but they're also really focused on doing as many dates as we can now, so that we'll be able to take time off later.

They do insist on being home once a month, when Kat goes in to the doctor's office for another insemination attempt, but the fact that she's not pregnant yet has both of them on edge as well. I made a joke about using David Crosby as a donor instead of the sperm bank, and they practically bit my head off. I guess I should be glad they haven't asked me or Tim to donate.

Tomorrow we leave for a week and a half--the longest I'll be away from Tim since he got out of the Canyon. Gwen's agreed to pick him up and take him to the office each day, since his leg's not strong enough to drive yet, and Gloria's available to take him to the store, to the therapist, run some errands, that sort of thing.

He says he'll be fine, but I'm still worried. His body's getting stronger every day, but lately I can't help but think of him as fragile in some indefinable way. The fact that he has a nightmare the night before I leave doesn't make me feel any better about going, but he insists again that he's fine, reminds me that I've missed being on stage, and that we've been separated a lot longer than that before. And I can't very well stay home on some sort of vague feeling, so in the morning I'll be off. Fuck.

****

I can tell Bill doesn't want to leave, and it takes all my self-control to hide how much I want him to stay. I don't know what's wrong with me lately--physical therapy, while still torture, has had noticeable results. I don't need the crutches anymore, and I can walk further every week. The pain's a little less when I bend my knee, the last spots where the pins were are scarred over and no longer irritated, and, while I still get tired more easily than I can believe, I no longer fall asleep at the drop of a hat. I'm with Bill, I love him more every day, work with the Fund is going better than expected. Some days I feel happy, the same joy, contentment, fulfillment that I felt when we first came home. Other days...

Other days I have to watch myself. Stop myself from sniping at Gwen, at Bill, at everyone. Stop myself from screaming in frustration at how long it takes me to get anywhere, even to the kitchen for a fucking glass of milk. Stop myself from shaking when I read about one more group needing money to help kids abused in ways even I, a former murder police, never knew they could be. I try meditating, but it doesn't seem to help--when I'm in that state, being in the moment seems impossible.

Bill's gotten me seeing a therapist, a young man named Stuart, only out of school a couple years. Stuart's everything I suppose a therapist is supposed to be--kind, caring, non-judgmental, supportive, all that. And some of the things he's come up with have been truly helpful. I've told him nearly everything--all about my childhood, in endless detail, not just about George, but a lot about my father as well. I've told him about Adena Watson, Janelle Parsons, all the murdered children. I've told him about the shooting, about partnering with Frank, about killing Larry Moss. I've told him about robbing that damned convenience store, something I've never even thought of mentioning to Bill. I've told him about Church Canyon. About the website. About Gee's murder.   
But I haven't told him about Ryland. Oh, he knows about the internet murders, how I was outed, even how Ryland got off and how I hit Danvers. He even knows Ryland was killed, and that I went on a leave of absence right after that. Hell, maybe he's figured it out. But I can't bring myself to tell him. And he definitely knows I'm holding something back--has asked me about it more than once. So far he's been willing to accept that I'm not going to tell him, but I know it's affecting our relationship, if that's what you call what goes on between a therapist and his--what? Client? Patient? Who the fuck knows.

And I can't say it's not affecting me. God knows I don't want it to--don't I have enough shit to deal with already? Except, of course, I brought _this_ shit on myself. So sometimes, when Bill's gone, and I'm alone in our bed, I can't sleep. I don't have nightmares about Ryland. I just can't get to sleep, can't stay asleep, don't want to get out of bed. It only happens when Bill's gone, and I haven't really told him about it. He worries about me too much already. I'm finally beginning to see what Frank meant about me being too much of a mother hen after his stroke.

So maybe I should talk to Stuart about it. About what I did. Sometimes, though, I don't know how I ever managed to tell Frank, much less Bill. The idea of telling Stuart fucking terrifies me. I know about patient-doctor privilege, confidentiality, and all that, but I also know that there are limits to those sorts of things. Like when someone is dangerous. And I was dangerous, no doubt about that. I don't think I am anymore, but who am I to judge? If anyone had tried to tell me, even a few weeks before it happened, that I would be capable of what I did--of murder--I would have laughed in their face.

Of course, I never would have believed I was capable of pulling my gun on a convenience store owner over 11 fucking cents, either, until I did it.

I meant it when I told Bill I hated getting angry at him. My anger's not safe.

Shit, I guess I do need to talk to Stuart about this.

But that's easier said than done, and the next day, as I sit on the comfortable sofa in his comfortable office, with the little Zen garden next to me and the soothing prints on the wall, I find it difficult to say a single word. Finally I get out that I'm having trouble sleeping while Bill's out of town.

"More nightmares?" he asks.

"Uh, no. Just can't sleep."

"That's a different pattern for you. How long has this been going on?"

"A few weeks, off and on. It only happens when Bill's gone."

"I see. What do you do when you can't sleep?"

"Sometimes I read, or watch TV. Sometimes I just stare at the ceiling."

"What do you think about?"

"Luke Ryland." I don't even realize I've said his name out loud for a minute. Then I look up and see Stuart's professional, concerned face. He doesn't look upset, or scared, just curious. Of course, I haven't really said anything yet that would scare him.

"You think about Luke Ryland when you can't sleep?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you suppose that is?"

"Look, Stuart--fuck. I know I probably--I need to tell you about something, but I need to clarify something first."

"Okay."

"The whole therapist-client confidentiality thing."

"Whatever you tell me, no matter what it is, remains confidential."

"Like attorney-client privilege, right?"

"Yes, like that."

"So when I told you about robbing that convenience store--"

"If there's a court order, or someone subpoenas your records, I have to give them up, unless you apply for protection. But I don't keep very detailed records, and as you know, I don't tape our sessions. It doesn't matter what you tell me, Tim, unless I think you're a significant danger to yourself or someone else. And even if I see that danger, that doesn't give me the right to tell the police, for example, or your former boss at the FBI. It just means I could order you committed to an institution for further evaluation, or that I have to take action if I think you're going to hurt someone. Are you thinking about killing yourself, Tim?"

"What? No! No, I'm not." I promised Bill, and I meant it.

"Are you thinking about hurting someone else?"

"No. Not now."

"At some point in the past?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"I--I went to his house, after the trial. I told him I was going to be watching him, to make sure he didn't hurt anyone else. And he told me about how he was moving to New Orleans, where the women were easy, that I'd see it on the internet. And then he turned around and walked away."

"What happened then?"

"I went home. And when it was dark--"

"When it was dark," Stuart prompts calmly.

"I went back. And I shot him."

Stuart pauses a moment, takes a breath, nods. Maybe he had figured it out already. "How did that feel?"

"It felt--it felt good, great, actually, for a second, and then it felt fucking awful, but it was done, it was over. He couldn't hurt anyone anymore."

"And how does it feel now?"

"Now?"

"When you're thinking about him, when you can't sleep, what do you feel, Tim?"

"Guilty."

"And?"

"Angry."

"Anything else?"

"Look, how can you just sit there so calmly and ask _me_ about my feelings?"

"What do you mean?"

"I just told you I fucking _killed_ someone, Stuart!"

"And I should feel?"

"Disgusted! Disappointed. Afraid."

"Are you feeling afraid or disgusted?"

"Of course I am!"

"What are you afraid of?"

I couldn't say anything. Stuart just waits. Finally, I manage to say, "I'm not sure." What a fucking brilliant answer.

Stuart waits some more. And then he says, "I think you know, Tim. What are you afraid of?"

"My anger."

He nods. "What about your anger?"

"Well, isn't that obvious? When I get angry--when I get angry, bad things happen. I--I do things. Bad things."

"Let me ask you something, Tim. You got angry at Bill that night in Baltimore, right? Did you do anything bad to him?"

"I--I yelled at him. Grabbed him. I think I shook him a little."

"Did you hurt him?"

"No."

"Okay, here's another one. When you confronted your uncle, what did you do?"

"I see where you're going with this, Stu, but--"

He interrupts me. "Tim, did you hurt your uncle?"

"No. No, I didn't hurt him."

"And when Sarah was raped, what did you do?"

"I kept track of the fucking evidence, and I tried to help her cope." This is pissing me off.

"And when Lieutenant Giardello was shot?"

"I worked the fucking case, but--"

"What about when you had to let the Araber go?"

"Look, goddammit, just because I don't always go off the fucking deep end doesn't mean I couldn't do it again!"

"You're right, Tim. So what was different? What was different when you hit Danvers and then killed Ryland? What was the difference between confronting him and confronting your uncle?"

"I have no fucking idea!"

"Well, maybe that's what you need to be thinking about. Why don't you spend some time this week thinking about it."

"That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"What did you expect me to say?"

"I don't know--something about being shocked, or upset, or _something_, I don't know! Jesus, Stuart!"

"Tim, have you told anyone else about killing Ryland?"

"I told Frank--right before I gave him my badge. He almost turned me in. And I told Bill, in the hospital, when Frank came to visit me there. And now you."

"When you told Frank, was he shocked and upset?"

"Of course he was! He didn't want to believe it, and then he didn't know what to do about it, and I told him I was gonna eat my gun unless he either absolved me or arrested me, but he managed to talk me out of it."

"And this was when you quit homicide?"

"Yes."

"Have you thought about killing yourself before?"

"I don't know--maybe. Bill says he thinks I have a death wish, that that's why I joined the FBI and went undercover."

"What do you think?"

How did I know he was going to ask me that? "Um, I guess I haven't really thought about it much. But I guess--well, I was willing to take a bullet for Frank, and I was willing to die in Church Canyon, as long as Sarah and Ruth were safe, and the bureau got the evidence it needed. And before I was in homicide, I was with the QRT team and the Mayor's security detail, which were pretty high-risk jobs. I never consciously thought about it, though. Even when I was talking to Frank that night, I didn't know I was going to say it until I did."

"What about when you were a child?"

"Yeah, sure, I thought about it. Especially after I finally told my father about Uncle George, and he didn't believe me. The next few years, until he finally stopped, I thought about it a lot."

I look up, and Stuart's got a serious expression on his face, more so than usual. When he catches my eye, he nods, like he wants me to get something.

"How soon after the Ryland case did you shoot that homeless man?" he asks me.

"Just a few weeks later."

"So, just after you were outed to the department, you killed someone and suffered a crisis in your faith. And that was right around the time that cop you were interested in, what was his name?"

"Roger Fisk."

"Roger Fisk. This was when?"

"About a week before I killed Larry Moss."

"So, you were outed to the department, called a faggot by someone you were interested in, a monk you knew and respected was murdered, and you killed his murderer in self-defense, all within, what? Six weeks or so? And then, what, another six weeks later, Ryland gets out?"

"Yes."

"People you trusted, like Giardello and Danvers, let you down. Your partner left you. You lost your faith. You'd been shot and seriously wounded less than a year before, after witnessing three officers being killed and three detectives wounded, due in part to your partner's inability to fire his weapon, which also caused your own injury."

"Yeah."

"A pretty traumatic year. A very traumatic couple of months. A lot of people, even people who hadn't been through childhood sexual abuse, not to mention the stress of homicide, would be depressed, anxious, suffering from post-traumatic stress, maybe even suicidal, after a year like that."

"But I didn't shoot myself--I shot Ryland."

He nods, and we just look at each other for a long moment.

"I think that's enough for today. Listen, I know we've been meeting once a week, and that's been working pretty well, but we've opened up some major stuff today, and it might be that we'll need to meet more frequently for awhile. What do you think?"

"Uh--maybe. I don't know."

"I'll tell you what. Maybe you need some time to think all this over. Why don't we keep next week's appointment for now. But Tim, you may find that in a couple days, you have a lot going on, maybe need to talk to me again. If that happens, please call me, and I'll squeeze you in, okay?"

"All right." I wonder if I look as shell-shocked as I feel.

"Tim, you do have the emergency number, don't you?"

"What? Yeah, yeah, I've got it."

"This is very important, Tim. If you start to feel really badly, like you need to get away, or even start thinking about hurting yourself, you have to call me, okay?"

"Of course. I really don't think that's going to happen, though."

He nods again, still looking at me intently. "When is Bill coming home?"

"A week from tomorrow. But I talk to him every day."

"All right. How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay. Really. I'll see you next week."

"All right. I'll call you tomorrow, see how you're doing."

"That's not necessary."

"Humor me." I meet his eyes again, see the same professional concern I always see, and a little more weight drops off my shoulders. I nod.

****

Tim was a little quiet last night when I talked to him before the show. He insisted he was just tired from PT, but I could tell something was bothering him, probably a nightmare, which I know he has more of when I'm gone. I didn't press him on it, though, because I was pretty fucking tired myself--turns out I don't sleep that well without him either.

Okay, it might have had something to do with the crowd of right wingers that were protesting in front of the arena. We've had some problems with them before, ever since Kat and Chelle came out, but it's worse now, and it's harder for me, at least, to ignore than it used to be. The local cops and the feds both keep a pretty close eye on stuff like that these days, and security back stage is extremely tight, which only serves to remind me of why we've got all that extra security. Tim and I have gotten a couple death threats, serious ones, from members of Eisen's church. So far the feds have managed to arrest the suspects. So far.

Fuck.

Tonight we're in Detroit, on the eastern time zone. I usually wait until after the show to call him when there's this much of a time difference, but right now I'd really like to hear his voice, so I go ahead.

The phone rings a long time--the machine's about to pick up when he finally answers, out of breath.

"Hi, Bill." Yeah, we have caller ID, okay?

"Greetings from the Motor City."

"What's the weather like up north?"

"Cold. A little snow, not too bad. The sun's been out."

"We actually had a few clouds today. It was a nice change. How was the concert last night?"

"Good. Really fucking good, actually. Deeja is a vast improvement over Doug, that's for damn sure. How are you doing? Where were you, anyway?"

"In the shower. I went for a walk after PT."

"So, exactly what are you wearing right now, Secret Agent Man?"

He laughs. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I was already getting dressed when I heard the phone. I'm in jeans and a t-shirt, not a towel. But feel free to imagine me any way you want."

"I do, quite frequently. But I much prefer the original. You sound better today."

"Slept a little better last night. Had a good session with Stuart yesterday."

"What about?"

"Uh, Ryland, actually."

"You told him?" Jesus.

"Yeah."

"What did he say?"

"Um, well, he actually implied that I'd made a choice between killing myself and killing Ryland. Because I was depressed."

"Makes a lot of sense."

"I wasn't sure, at first, but yeah, maybe it does."

"Fuck maybe."

"You think?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck, I miss you."

"Shit, Tim, I miss you, too. Every minute, even when I'm up there playing."

"One more week."

"One more week."

"Bill--" his voice catches.

"What is it, Tim?"

"I think--you were right, that day in Phoenix, in the hospital. If I hadn't met you when I did, Bill--shit. Thank you. For saving my life, more than once, in more than one way."

"You made another choice, Tim. You gonna keep making it?"

"Hell yes."

"You gonna keep making it?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"That's buddies."

"You and me, talking, no holding back. I love you."

"You and me. Love you, Tim."

"Go kick some ass for those Motown kids. Call me after the show?"

"Better believe it. Talk to you later."

And after I hang up, I feel better than I've felt in days.


	2. Touring's a Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill runs into something unexpected on the road.

We go from Detroit to Cleveland, then Cincinnati, then Nashville. Each show gets better--we're comfortable with the new songs now, and the audience is really into them as well, which is great. I'm doing the fucking bandaids practically every night. There are protesters in Cincinnati, some media coverage of local homophobes picketing the arena, but there aren't any major problems. We stay in a small town near Dayton, at Deeja's suggestion--she went to school in Ohio. So we stay in Yellow Springs, a haven of progressives in southern Ohio. That's pretty much the last place on the tour where I feel reasonably comfortable. Fucking Bible belt starts as soon as you get south of Cleveland.

We're doing "Adena's Song" as our first encore, and the response is fucking phenomenal, even though it's not going to be officially released for another couple weeks. We're doing a video a couple days after we get back--Tim's going to introduce the song, and he'll be in the video as well, but it will mostly be pictures of kids, including the song's namesake. We've been collecting pictures, videotapes, and permission through the Fund for the past few weeks.

Bruce McDonald actually called a month ago, the prick. Offered to direct a video for the band. I told him to fuck off.

Every once in awhile I catch myself thinking about Joe, about how he would have reacted to all this shit. We never talked about it, but I knew he'd been fucked with by his dad. He didn't have the obvious bruises and cuts that I was always sporting, and he was big--by the time I met him, even though he was only 13, his dad acted a little scared of him--but I think when he was younger, some heavy shit went down in the Mulgrew house. And I think he acted all that out again with me, because I was smaller and quieter. And because that was all he fucking knew.

If he hadn't killed himself, would we have ever worked things out, gotten to a place where we could allow ourselves to love each other? The older I get, the less I think it would have been possible. His death was such a fucking huge blow that it finally forced me to live my own life. If he were still alive, I'd still be in his orbit, still reacting to him, still hearing his voice at every turn, whether we were together or not. The five years I spent in LA after leaving the first time were like that--yeah, I managed to quit drinking, to get decent jobs, to live alone, but everything I did was in reaction to Joe. Even a year ago, when I first met Tim, I still heard that voice every day--I was just a lot better at ignoring it. Now, I hear it only occasionally, like when I've done something stupid. For years I didn't go five minutes without thinking of the Dick, but now it's a rare day when he's in my thoughts.

And if he'd lived, if he were still in my life, I never would have found Tim. We might have met, and I'd have been attracted, no question, but Joe--Joe would probably have beat him within an inch of his life for even looking at me. He would have known Tim was serious competition, more serious than Mary or anyone else I'd ever met.  
I made my choice, and Joe made his. And I try not to feel guilty about that, because I know the life I have now, this fucking amazing life, wouldn't be possible if Joe were alive. I'm glad I knew him, glad I loved him--I think I'd have killed myself, intentionally or by accident, if he hadn't gotten me out of my father's house--but I'm fucking glad he's dead.

I'm thinking all this deep philosophical shit, as Tim would call it, sitting in the cushy tour bus, a far cry from the goat van, on the road between Nashville and Atlanta, where we'll be playing tonight. We're in the mountains, the Great Smokies, and the scene out my window alternates between beauty and ugliness--trees and mountains and mist, and then billboards, billboards, and more fucking billboards.

Jesus, I've lived in this country for over ten years now, but I will never understand the American South. Atlanta's not too bad--it's fairly sophisticated--but after that we're heading to Charleston, which at least is beautiful, New Orleans, which is all right, but not the easiest place for a fucking alcoholic--but then we're ending this tour in Montgomery. Montgomery, Alabama--I don't know how there could be any Jenifur fans there, but they tell me the show's sold out.

Deeja comes over to talk. Turns out she wants to hear some Hard Core Logo, wants to know where I've come from as a musician, so I dig through my shit and come up with a couple tapes. Some folks in Canada are talking about releasing a compilation album, but I don't know if that's going to happen or not. Deeja and I talk for a while. She's a cool kid--only 25, but she's got a shitload of talent, energy, and ambition, not to mention being really fucking smart. She's got the education to back it up--has a four year degree from Oberlin College. She went out there when we were in Cleveland, brought some friends backstage that night, all really fucking bright and enthusiastic.

I find myself telling Deeja a bit about Joe, end up talking about those long nights in the fucking hellhole of a van, and before I know it we're playing the movie game. She's seen a lot of movies, good ones, so it's a good game. As we're pulling up to the hotel, she tells me she appreciates the conversation, that she's been feeling a little like the new kid, but I've made her feel more welcome. Then she gives me a hug and tells me it's too bad I'm spoken for. I laugh.

"Deej, you're just going to have to bear the burden of being the token heterosexual, whether you like it or not." She laughs too, and Chelle and Kat look a little curiously at us as we get off the bus.

A couple days later I notice what a change there's been. When I first joined the band, I was so fucked up over Joe and quitting drinking and everything else, I shut everyone out. Chelle and Kat were supportive, but they spent most of their time together. I liked being the outsider back then, and I never really formed an attachment to any of the other members that came and went over the next few years. Chelle and Kat became good friends, but when we were on the road or recording or rehearsing, our relationship was basically professional. It was only on those rare occasions when they'd invite me over for dinner, or come over to visit Billie, that our conversations were about anything other than the music, the album, the tour, the job. On the tour bus, especially the last tour, Kat and Chelle did their thing, together, Doug acted like the asshole he was, and I stayed off to the side.

Now, though, for the first fucking time, there's a real camaraderie going on. Deej and I spend long hours talking, singing, playing word games, and the other two get involved too. The four of us sit closer together in the bus, and we hang out with each other in the hotel instead of keeping to our rooms. We're developing a short hand, in-jokes, a feeling that, for once, the whole is greater than the sum of parts. It's why our shows have been going so well--that's where it gelled first, we just didn't realize it. Deeja and I will pick out a movie, and the four of us will watch it together as we roll down the highway. It's like she's gotten us out of a rut we didn't even know we were in--we'd busted out of it musically, starting last summer, but now we're getting out in other ways. Feels good.

So I'm in a good mood that night after the show when I call Tim.

"Hi, Rock Star," he says, and he sounds pretty happy, too.

"Hi yourself, Secret Agent Man."

"You must have had a good show--you sound great."

"We had a fucking great show. Tim, I have to tell you, things have been fucking fantastic with Deeja in the band. You sound like you're doing well, too--what's up?"

"I got some really good news today. The paperwork's through, and I'm officially approved as a foster parent in California. I still have to attend a couple more classes, but they're just a formality."

"Fuck, Tim, that's great news. What's the next step?"

"Karen's filing with the state of Utah next week. We'll be getting together amicus briefs and calling in all the favors we can, but it's still a long shot. I think we'll be able to tell the girls what's been going on when they get here. I just hope they won't be too disappointed if it doesn't work out."

"It'll mean a lot to them that you tried, no matter what. And maybe there are some other options, things we haven't thought of yet. Shit, maybe we won't need to do anything else--maybe this will just happen."

"I hope so. I'm worried about them--Sarah's really angry, and Ruth seems like she's just shutting down."

"We'll get a chance to talk to them over the weekend. It'll work out, Tim."

"I was thinking we could take them out to Channel Islands National Park--they could get stamps for their parks' passports, and spend some time out on the ocean. I won't be up for a whole lot of hiking, and it sounds like sea kayaking is pretty tough, but we could still make a day of it, do some bird watching, a little hiking--what do you think?"

"I think you're bound and determined to turn me into Nature Boy."

"What's wrong with turning you into Nature Boy? Fresh air, sunshine, wildlife--it's good for you to experience new things. Besides, you need to get in practice before we go to the Grand Canyon in September."

"It sounds great, Tim."

"Good, because I already made reservations for a boat tour and a Ranger-led hike."

"Fine. But remember, I promised Sarah I'd take her to Venice Beach to go shopping."

"No problem--you can do that when Ruth and I are at the movies."

"That'll work. You know we'll have to take Billie when she comes--she'll be jealous if we don't."

"Think you can handle that, Nature Boy?"

"You could probably find a way to persuade me."

"I've got a few ideas."

"You know, sublimating my libido into my guitar playing will only work for so long--I don't think it would take much to persuade me right now."

"Tell me about it. Physical therapy's no fun without you."

"I'll be home soon, wuss, so you'd better get in shape. You sleeping okay?"

"Yeah, pretty well. No nightmares."

"Have you been back to see Stuart?"

"No, that's tomorrow. How have you been sleeping?"

"Like shit. You'd think I'd appreciate the fact that there's actually room in the bed for me, but no such luck--I've gotten used to having you in there with me, taking up more room than I ever thought was possible for a normal human."

"Who wants to be normal? Maybe sometime I'll go with you on tour, keep an eye on you, make sure you're not getting any groupie sex."

"You've spoiled me for that, Tim. I want nothing but the best now. Men, women, boys, girls, they all want me, but I turn them all down. You'd better watch out when I get home."

"You're the one who's gonna have to watch out, Bill. I'm like the Six Million Dollar Man--they've rebuilt me, and I'm stronger, faster, have more stamina. I'm gonna wear you out."

"You can try. Love you."

"I love you too, putz. Sleep well."

"You too. See you in a few days."

I hang up the phone and just sit there for a minute, missing him. Then I hear someone clearing their throat behind me. I turn around and Deeja's standing there, looking a little embarrassed.

"Hey, Deej, what's up?"

"Uh, guess you were just on the phone with Tim, huh?"

"Guilty as charged," I say with a grin.

"You guys are the real thing, aren't you?" she asks, smiling back, a little sadly.

"Who'd have figured, huh?" And then we head back to the hotel. She invites me to join her in the bar, but I tell her no thanks. I guess it's not easy being the only single person in the band--she doesn't seem the type to go for groupies, which is probably for the best, but it must be hard sometimes. Tonight, I don't feel like hanging out--I just go back to my room and picture Tim naked.

****

The next session with Stuart goes well. I feel like I'm really making progress for the first time since--well, since I told Bill in the hospital. I'm still a little freaked by having told Stuart, even though he told me today that he "had a strong suspicion already" that I knew more about Ryland's death than I was letting on. He warns me that I still have a lot of work to do, that this will continue to affect me, and I know it's true, but for now it feels great to have gotten to some new place with all this shit. I do feel like I've been rebuilt--like I've rebuilt myself into a new person over the last year. I felt a little like this when I became a Buddhist, but this feels deeper, more real.

We spent some time today talking about parenthood, about the way my life will change if and when Ruth and Sarah come to live with us. We also talked about how I'm going to tell the girls about my petition, and how we'll all handle it if I lose. All very good, practical stuff, which somehow isn't what I expected from a therapist.  
Bill's on the road between somewhere and Alabama--I can't keep track of where he is when. I do know the last concert is tomorrow, in Montgomery. It's hard to picture Bill there, and I know he's not thrilled about it--the last time they played the deep south, there were protesters at every show, and that was before he was with me.

I've been on the phone with the Bureau a few times already this week--there's been another death threat, and they haven't been able to trace it yet. I haven't told Bill--it's so great to hear his voice every night, and I don't want to spoil our conversations with bad news. I'll tell him when he gets home. Maybe they'll catch the asswipe by then. Maybe it should bother me more than it does, but after everything that's already happened, I find it hard to spend a lot of time worrying about it, especially when Bill's gone. I know he's safe, and I know I've got my gun and regular patrols driving by, and that feels like enough.

Work at the Fund is going well this week. Even though the album's not going to be released for another month, there's already a buzz around it and "Adena's Song." Mark emails me copies of reviews in all the towns Jenifur plays, and they're all positive, filled with praise for the new songs. He says MTV called and wanted to do a   
"Making of the Video." The band hasn't decided yet if they're going to do it or not--they're getting a lot of pressure from the label, so they might go ahead with it.

Paula's been and gone, and I'm trying to get into a pose that used to be so easy and is now fucking impossible, when the phone rings.

"Hello?" I'm panting a little from the combination of yoga and trying to get to the phone.

"Tim, are you okay?" It's Bartlett.

"Yeah, I'm fine--was just doing some yoga, so I'm a little out of breath. What's up?"

"I wanted to give you a head's up about the situation in Montgomery," he says.

"There's a situation in Montgomery?"

"I'm sorry, I thought Bill told you--"

"I haven't talked to Bill since last night, Fred. What's going on?"

"We don't have anything concrete at this point, but we've noticed some increased activity in some of the hate groups down there, and we think they might be planning something for tomorrow night."

"Something like a protest, or something else?"

"We really don't know yet. We've got several agents working on it, but we don't know anything solid. I just wanted to let you know that we've got a couple agents with the band, and one will be with Bill at all times."

"Wait--Fred, are you telling me you think this is specifically aimed against Bill? It's not 'get the dykes and the nigger and the faggot' this time, like the protesters in Cincinnati and Charleston, it's Bill in particular?"

There's an uncomfortable pause before he answers. "I want to stress again that we don't know anything for sure at this point, Tim. But we have reason to suspect that some of Eisen's group may be involved."

Fuck. "So they are targeting Bill."

"And probably you as well. I'm arranging for 24 hour surveillance of the house, just in case, and I've let the police know they need to be on alert. Is there anyone staying with you?"

"No, not at night. Folks come by during the day--my assistant picks me up, takes me to the office, stuff like that."

"We'll get someone to follow you, probably someone local. You have a concealed weapons permit?"

"Yeah, but I usually leave the gun at home."

"Humor me and take it with you."

"You're really concerned."

"Until we have that death threat traced and know exactly what's going on in Alabama, yes, Tim, I'm concerned. I don't think you need to be wearing a vest, but I think you need to be careful."

"Okay, okay. I don't think Gwen will be too happy about it, but I'll carry it. Jesus, Fred--make sure Bill is safe. Even after everything that happened, I don't think he realizes what these sick fucks could do."

"We'll keep him safe, Tim. I give you my word. And we'll keep you safe too."

"What about Sarah and Ruth? They're not in any danger, are they?"

"None of the threats have even mentioned them, and neither have any of the statements Eisen and his supporters have made. We've got the St. George police keeping an eye out, but I don't think you have anything to worry about there."

"Good. You'll keep me up to date?"

"Count on it. We'll get them, Tim. Eisen's organization's falling apart--this might be a last-ditch effort to keep it going, but it's not going to work."

I'm feeling a little shaky as I get off the phone, go into the bedroom, and get my gun out of the safe. Then I remember I'm still in my shorts, need to take a shower, but first I call Bill. He reassures me that everything's fine, but I know I'm not going to rest easy until he's home.

It feels melodramatic, but that night I sleep with the fucking gun in the nightstand. Gwen gives me a concerned look the next day when I take off my jacket and she sees it holstered at my hip, but she knows enough of what's been going on that she doesn't say a word.

Bill calls the office that morning. There's been a bomb threat targeting the arena where Jenifur's supposed to perform. They're going over the place with a fine tooth comb and are hoping to hold the concert as scheduled, but he might end up staying over another day so they can perform the next night instead. He says Deeja is making up new verses to "We Shall Overcome" about religious fundamentalists and psycho cults, trying to make them laugh, while Kat and Chelle are bemoaning the state of the country their child will grow up in. They think she might actually be pregnant this time, and apparently they're taking everyone along on their emotional rollercoaster. He says he thinks Deeja is more freaked out than she's letting on, but for the most part they're all still in pretty good spirits.

It's good to hear his voice. We're both pretending we're not too worried, neither of us fooling the other, but content with the fiction.

The rest of the day goes by quickly--Gwen and I work on the wording for the video introduction, then look through grant applications and financial records. I spend some time talking with her about Sarah and Ruth, and she gives me a name of a therapist she thinks would be a good match for Sarah. Then there's the drive home, physical therapy, shower, and dinner. Bill calls while I'm in the shower. He leaves a message--the concert's definitely been canceled, but they're still not sure whether they're going to reschedule. He doesn't know when they'll figure it out, and they want him to keep the phone lines open, so he'll call in the morning.

The agents watching the house introduce themselves, then go back to their posts. The Beverly Hills police drive by every hour or so. I try to watch some TV, try to read, but I'm too on edge. I call Sarah and Ruth, let them know about the plans for the weekend, but they can tell something's wrong--for once Sarah doesn't complain about her foster parents, and Ruth tells me some jokes she heard at school. It's enough to get me smiling, at least for a little while.

It takes me a predictably long time to fall asleep, and I do have a nightmare, although not one I can really remember when I wake up suddenly, convinced I've heard something. I grab my glasses and my gun and listen. At first I don't hear anything, but then there's a muffled noise out in the living room. I get up as quietly as I can and make my way around to the side of the doorway. There's definitely someone out there.

The hallway is dark. I manage to slowly work my way towards the living room, leaning on the wall for support--I don't want the noise of my cane to give me away. I'm almost there when someone steps out into the hallway. I can't really tell, but it looks like he might be holding a weapon of some kind--a baseball bat, a rifle, something. He hasn't seen me yet. I take the safety off, aim, and use my cop voice: "Police! Drop your weapon! Hands in the air!"

I've obviously startled him--he jumps, then drops what he's holding. Then he speaks, and I practically have a heart attack.

"Jesus, Tim--I happen to know you're not a police officer anymore, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to shoot me, so why don't you put that fucking thing away?"

"_Bill_?!" I put the safety back on with shaking hands.

"Yeah, I caught a late flight, thought I'd surprise you. Didn't mean to surprise you this much."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Bill, couldn't you have turned on a fucking light, or _said_ something? Shit, I could have shot you! Jesus. I think I need to sit down. What the fuck were you holding?"

"It's your spare cane--I tripped over it. Here, let's get you back to bed." His voice is calm, but the arm he puts around my waist is shaking as much as I am.

"Tim, what the fuck is going on? There are FBI agents outside, and you're--well, obviously you're ready for anything, but the problem was in Alabama, last I heard, not here."

"There was another death threat, a couple days ago. They haven't traced it yet, and Bartlett was concerned. I thought--Bill, I could have _killed_ you! Maybe you're right, maybe having the gun here is a bad idea--" By this point we've made it back to the bedroom, and we both sit down on the bed. I realize I'm still holding the gun, and I drop it onto the bedside table, my hands still shaking as I turn on the light.

He takes my hands in his and looks at me. "Let's get something straight here, Tim. I am more than a little pissed off to have a fucking gun pulled on me in my own house. I'm never going to be happy that it's here. But as long as there are death threats--which you should have fucking _told_ me about, by the way--and psychos out to kill you, then I'm willing to put up with whatever it takes to make us safe. I don't want you pulling some kind of martyr shit and taking a bullet for me some day like you did for Frank. If that means I have to put up with a sharp-shooter in my bed, so be it. And if I ever surprise you again, I'll make damned sure I turn on the lights and announce my presence, okay? You should have told me about this, Tim."

"I just didn't want to tell you over the phone, Bill. Jesus, are you really here?" I pull him into a hug, burying my nose in his hair. "It's so damned good to see you."

He hugs me back, but I can feel the tension in his shoulders. He settles back into my arms with a sigh.

"Is this what our life's going to be like? FBI surveillance, death threats, fucking bomb threats? For the rest of our lives?"

"I don't know, Bill. I hope not. I know things are pretty fucked up right now. Fred keeps telling me that things will get better, that Eisen will get the death penalty, people will start to forget, or focus on something else, but I don't know how long that's going to take. I wish I could tell you that being with me was safe, but I can't." I lean my head on his shoulder for a minute before I can get it together enough to ask him what I need to ask.

"Are you going to be okay with that? Because I know you've got Billie, and you didn't ask for all this shit, didn't know that being with me was going to put you and potentially your daughter in danger."  
He leans his head back and looks at me quizzically. "Are you offering me some sort of out here? Because, as I've told you too many fucking times already, I'm not going anywhere, Tim. When are you going to start believing it?"

"I believe it. Most of the time, anyway," I add when he frowns at me. "But it wouldn't be buddies," there's the smile, "not to acknowledge the price you're paying to stay with me."

"I guess that's buddies. So, yeah, okay. I hereby acknowledge the fact that being with you means psycho fuckheads may try to hurt me, either directly or indirectly. And sometimes that scares the shit out of me. But so does the idea of you being anywhere but here, with me, for the rest of my life, however long that turns out to be. Got it?"

"Got it," I answer, turning to face him. "I love you, Bill." I bring his hand to my face, kiss his fingers, still covered with bandaids, and then his palm.

"Love you too, " he says hoarsely. "Jesus, what you do to me." He strokes my face, then pulls me in for a kiss. Just our lips meet at first, gentle and tender. I renew my acquaintance with his mouth, enjoying the feel of his soft, warm lips, just a little chapped. I moisten them lightly with my tongue, and his mouth opens, his tongue joining mine, and it's so damned good to taste that unique combination of toothpaste (he always brushes his teeth after he's been smoking, and he always smokes after he gets off an airplane) and Bill.

Our kisses are deeper now, but still slow and deliberate. My arms tighten around his back, and he moves closer, straddling my hips, and I can feel his erection pressing up against my belly. I move my hands down to the curves of his ass, and he groans, rocks against me, and reaches down to grasp my cock through my shorts. That makes me groan in turn, and I break off my exploration of his mouth.

"You need to get naked now, Bill," I tell him, pulling ineffectually at his t shirt.

"I need you to fuck me now," he answers, pulling just as ineffectually at my shorts.

"God, Bill," I moan, and he grins at me, then strips off his t shirt and my shorts. I go for the buttons on his jeans. He's not wearing anything underneath them--love it when he goes commando, and of course he knows that, he's grinning at me again as he lifts up for me to pull his jeans off. I reach for the lube and he reaches for my cock again, running his fingers gently over the head. Then he straddles my hips again and kisses me as I work him open with my fingers.

We're still relatively new at this, but it doesn't take long before he's twisting down hard on my fingers, gasping into my mouth. "Now, Tim," he groans, lifting up, then lowering himself slowly onto me. "Missed you--jesus--missed this."

I ease my way into his tight heat, both of us panting, eyes locked together as our bodies are, as our hearts are. We kiss again, slowly, sweetly, and then he begins to move, rocking just a little at first, then more. I reach for his cock, and he reaches behind me, both of us moving at the same time, in concert, his fingers probing me, mine stroking him, his hips rocking, mine thrusting, our tongues twining, until it feels like every part of us is connected, linked, a conduit for love and sex and energy and connection and life. I'm not sure which one of us comes first--it feels like we just keep going, moving, up and out and in, the intensity just building and building until it overflows and releases into and out of us.

He stays with me even as I soften and start to come out, holding on, both of us wrapped around each other.

"What was that, Tim?" he asks eventually. "Was that some sort of tantric Buddhist higher karmic thing? I coulda sworn there was fucking white light coming out of the top of my head or some sort of fucking chakra."

"Uh, I don't know too much about the whole tantric sex thing myself, but I can't imagine it could get any better than that, no matter how much yoga you do. It definitely felt like some sort of higher level of connection, didn't it?"

"You could say that," he says with a smile, finally moving next to me, then getting up. I reach for him, try to bring him back, but he kisses my hand and tells me he's just going to get some stuff to clean us up--he'll be right back. By the time we change the sheets and settle in together, there's not a whole lot of time left to sleep. Even so, I wake up with a smile on my face.

The smile doesn't last long. Bartlett calls that morning while we're showering. There were bombs in the arena--enough that the concert could have been as bad as Oklahoma City. And they haven't got any real suspects yet.


	3. In the Shape of a Mouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim deals with some parenting issues.

Things are busy but still tense for the next few days. The video shoot goes off well, and even though I feel like a total fool when I'm doing it, they say my intro is great. MTV's there, recording the whole thing for posterity, if you can call "Making the Video" posterity. Bill, Chelle, and Kat bitch and moan about the cameras, but I can tell they're enjoying the attention. Deeja's not even trying to hide her excitement, since it's her first video with the band. Once the shoot is finished, she goes off with one of the MTV crew, telling everyone she's planning on drinking him under the table. I catch a worried look pass between Bill and Kat, but no one says anything.

Later, when we're home, Bill tells me she's been drinking a lot lately, that all three of them have noticed it. So far it's not affecting her performances at all--she only drinks after concerts, not before or during. He doesn't think she's using anything else, and he's trying to give her the benefit of the doubt--they all are--because she's young and on tour with a rock band for the first time.

"What does that have to do with it?" I ask him.

"Well, you know, Tim, it's the lifestyle. Sex and drugs and rock n' roll. She hangs out with the roadies, for fuck's sake, and they're always drinking. You want to tell me it's not expected that 25 year old police officers are going to hang out at cop bars and drink a lot?"

I drop the subject, but I must have made some sort of impression on him, because he calls Kat and Chelle that night and tells them he's concerned, thinks they need to keep a closer eye on Deeja, and they agree.

Bartlett's calling daily with updates. They've got a suspect in custody down in Alabama, but he asked for a lawyer right away, and they haven't got much to go on. They've got enough evidence to indict him, but he won't give up anyone else in the organization. He does admit to being a member of Eisen's church.

They think the bomb threat and the death threat were coordinated by the same people, and that both Joseph Eisen and his father were part of it. Joseph's trial is coming up next month. We've still got 24 hour FBI surveillance, and I'm still carrying my gun. I almost called off the visit from Ruth and Sarah, but Bill persuaded me not to. I need to know they're safe, but I also need them to know how much they mean to me. I know it's selfish of me to have them near me, but we really fought hard to get their foster parents to agree to the visit, and if we cancel it, who knows when or if we'll be able to reschedule.

When the girls get off the plane, I know we made the right decision. Ruth is silent--just walks up to me and gives me a hug like she's never going to let go. Sarah's trying to act the cool teenager, but there's anger and hurt in her eyes. When she sees I'm off the crutches, just using a cane, she flashes me a huge smile and I get a quick hug.

The trip to Channel Islands goes pretty well, although Ruth gets a little whiny at the end. I'd rather have her whiny than silent. Whiny's pretty normal behavior for an eight year old, after all. I have to work to not whine myself after hiking around--using a cane on a beach is a lesson in frustration.

Ruth does give me a smile when I tell her I have something special planned for the next day--that she and I are going to go to a movie, just the two of us, while Bill and Sarah go to Venice Beach for some shopping. We pick out which movie she wants to see, which fortunately is not the latest Pokemon saga, and make plans for lunch and a trip to the toy store as well. It's a special treat for her birthday, which is next week, after she's back in Utah.  
The next morning I make Swedish pancakes for everyone. They're a hit, especially with Ruth. She pronounces them "the best breakfast ever" and eats almost as many as I do. After breakfast we gather in the living room and I tell the kids I've got some news.

"Sarah, Ruth, I know you're not very happy living with your foster parents in St. George. I want you to know that I'm trying to do something about that. I can't make any promises--you probably will have to stay with them for awhile longer, maybe a lot longer--but there's a small possibility that you could come and live with us, with me and Bill, instead. How would you feel about that?"

Ruth gives me a hug and starts to cry. "Tim, I want you to be my dad so much! Please, please, let me come and live with you. I'll be so good, I won't do anything bad, just please let me come and live with you."

I hug her back and blink back my own tears. "Sweetie, if it were up to just me, you'd already be living here, but it's not. The state of Utah has custody of you and Sarah, and they're the ones who placed you with the Zumhagens. I'm going to try as hard as I can to become your foster parent, and then to adopt you, but they might not let me."

Sarah's quiet, hasn't said a word.

"Sarah? What are you thinking?"

"What happens if it doesn't work? What happens if you lose?"

"I don't know. Karen, the lawyer we're working with, says there are some other things we can try, depending on what happens. I'm not going to give up easily. No matter what, even if you have to stay with the Zumhagens until you're 18, I'll still be here for you in whatever way I can be."

"We both will be," Bill adds. "You need to know that. If this happens, Tim will be your official foster parent, but we're a package deal. Are you girls okay with that? Because if that's too weird, we need to know. This is going to be a tough fight, and if it's not something you really, really want, then it's not going to be worth the sh--, uh, stuff we'll all be putting up with."

"How do you feel about that, Ruth?" I ask nervously. I know Sarah's comfortable with Bill's and my relationship, but I'm not sure how much Ruth understands, or how comfortable she is.

"Bill's nice. You're happy with him. I like him. But you'd be my dad, right?"

"I'd be your dad, if this works out, but Bill would sort of be like a parent, too."

"So he'd be like the mom or something?" she asks skeptically.

Bill, Sarah, and I look at each other and try not to laugh.

"No, he wouldn't be the mom--he'd be Bill. But he'd be part of your life, of our lives."

"Okay," she says, seemingly unconcerned. "As long as you'd be my dad."

I tell them that Karen's going to want to talk to them, that she'll be coming over in a little while. And then I talk to them about the fact that being with me could put their lives in danger.

"I know this all sounds wonderful, and that you want to come live with me, and believe me, I want that too, but there's something else you girls have to know before we go ahead with this. I know you don't like living in St. George, but you're safe there, as safe as you can be. If you come live with me--well, there are some people out there that aren't happy that Eisen's in jail, and they blame me. They've threatened to hurt me and Bill. And if you come to live with me, they might try to hurt you, too."

"Is that why you're carrying a gun again?" Sarah asks.

"Uh, yeah, Sarah, that's why."

"Okay. That's what I figured."

"It's not really okay, but unfortunately, it's necessary right now. I'm sorry that it has to be this way, and I'd certainly understand if it made you uncomfortable. You're a lot safer in Utah, and if we hadn't had this trip planned, you'd be back in Utah right now. I love you, and I want you to live with me, if possible, but most of all, I need to know that you're safe."

"You won't let anything happen to us," Sarah says confidently. Even after the rape, she still trusts me to protect her. Ruth nods in agreement.

"We'll do everything we can to keep you girls safe," Bill interjects, "but you'll have to put up with whatever Tim thinks we need to do. There might be times, like now, when we've got FBI agents around the house, 24 hours a day. You could have police protection following you around when you go to school, or when you're out with your friends. We'll need to know where you are, who you're with--this is serious, and you need to understand that. These people are out there, and they're real, and they're not going to go away any time soon."

I shoot him a thankful look. Maybe hearing it from both of us will make it sink in a little better. The girls do have more serious expressions on their faces, and they nod solemnly when I ask them if they understand. We're saved from any more discussion when the doorbell rings and Bill gets up to let Karen in. As he gets up from the sofa, Sarah joins Ruth next to me. By the time Karen enters the room, I've got Ruth on my lap and Sarah curled up under my arm. She smiles when she sees the three of us, and so does Bill.

****

I've been shopping with Billie before, and I took both the girls shopping on Boxing Day, but it's a different experience today. Sarah's a teenager--shit, Billie will be one soon, too, which is a fucking scary thought. Sarah's older than I was when I met Joe.

We fall into an easy camaraderie, and I realize how different she is with me than she is with Tim. It's not that she doesn't respect me, exactly, but she doesn't have me up on a pedestal the way she still has Tim, the man who taught her, encouraged her, and protected her as best he could. He's still her savior, even more so now that she knows he's trying to adopt her.

I'm a little more human. She doesn't love me the way she loves him, but she likes me, feels comfortable being herself with me. She sees me as a friend, and I'm pretty happy to go along with that. When I'm with Billie, there's always a little part of me that's on guard, trying not to do anything that could be seen as a bad example. I don't feel that as much with Sarah, whether because she's older, or because she's not my kid. Yeah, I'm still responsible--I don't smoke around her, try my damnedest not to swear much--but I'm a little looser, and she's a little looser with me, and we have a hell of a good time.

We're walking along the beach, watching the freak show all around us, when she asks me about my tattoo.

"Did it hurt?"

"Yeah--not too bad, but it wasn't fun."

"How old were you when you got it?"

"Seventeen--right after I ran away from home."

"You ran away? Because your parents were beating you up?"

"That was part of it. My mom was an alcoholic, my dad hit me, hit Joe, stuff like that. And I didn't think there was anything else I could do, so when Joe wanted to run, I went with him."

"So you and Joe ran away together, and started the band."

"That's right. We started Hard Core Logo. That was all we cared about."

"Why did you get a tattoo that says 'Champion'?"

"Because we were both drunk, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Joe was supposed to get one, too, but he passed out."

"I'm never going to drink."

"That's a good goal. It's easy to drink, to take drugs, to let addiction take over your life. I've managed to kick most of my addictions, but there's not a day that goes by that I don't wish I never took that first drink. It's gotten easier since I met Tim, but it's still hard." I'm thinking about Deeja. I wasn't too concerned at first, while we were on tour, but lately she's seemed a little off in rehearsals--not drunk, but hung-over, getting to the studio late, shit like that. Kat and Chelle and I haven't said anything to her--not yet--but I'm beginning to think we're going to have to say something soon.

Sarah brings me back to the moment. "I guess Tim changed both our lives, huh?" she says with a smile.  
I nod, smile back at her.

"Were you ever sorry you got the tattoo?"

"No, not really. Maybe wished I'd gotten a different one, one that meant something. There was a song we used to do called 'Blue Tattoo.' Talked about a blue tattoo in the shape of a heart, in the shape of the world. I thought about getting a tattoo like that, especially after Joe died."

"Why don't you? It would be so cool. There's a couple kids at school that have tattoos."

"Even in Utah? No, I don't want that tattoo anymore. I'll always remember Joe, but that's not what my life's about now. It would make more sense to get a Mighty Mouse tattoo, don'tcha think?" I grin at her.

"That's a great idea, Bill! Look, there are tons of tattoo parlors around here--I'm sure at least one of them could do it. We could both get them--it would be great!"

"Wait a second, kiddo. You want a tattoo? Since when?"

"Since _forever_! Well, for six months, anyway. Yeah. A Mighty Mouse tattoo. On my ankle. Come on!"  
Against my better judgment, after a few minutes of arguing, I let her drag me into the nearest tattoo parlor. It's run by a woman named Cecile, it's very clean, they don't reuse anything, and the artwork is beautifully done. She assumes I'm Sarah's father, and neither one of us corrects her. And lo and behold, Cecile is a Mighty Mouse fan. Maybe it's a contact high from all the ganga being smoked out on the beach, or being distracted by worrying about Deeja when I should be paying attention to Sarah, but it doesn't seem like that big a deal for her to get a small tattoo of Mighty Mouse on her ankle. Seems like fate. I'm a little irritated by the way my jeans brush up against mine, but I figure Tim will appreciate it. It's not like I plan on anyone else ever seeing it--it's low on my groin, in between my hipbone and my pubic hair. I'm actually feeling pretty good, imagining his reaction.  
I am such a fucking idiot.

****

Ruth and I have lunch at Wendy's, her choice, then go to see the sequel to "Spy Kids." She wants to sit in the exact middle of the theatre, which is hell on my leg. Then we spend quite awhile wandering around the toy store, which is, after all, still a relatively new experience for her. We have a great time, but I'm hobbling more than usual by the time we get home, trying to carry bags full of toys and still use my cane, already sore from the day at Channel Islands, and I'm feeling a little snarky when I realize Bill and Sarah aren't back yet. Then Ruth wants to do yoga with me, which is an interesting experience, mostly fun, until she grabs onto me for balance and I wrench the hell out of my back.

I manage to get Ruth settled with a video, call and order some pizza, take a muscle relaxant and a pain pill, and find a semi-comfortable position on the sofa by the time Bill and Sarah come home. They've both got strangely sheepish looks on their faces, but I don't have a chance to ask them anything before the pizza arrives. The pain pill's helping a little, but I don't feel any more relaxed, and I wonder if I'm getting immune to the damned muscle relaxants. Probably time to give them up.

Ruth tells them all about the movie and the toy store during dinner. Then we move back to the sofa. Sarah puts her feet up, and I notice the bandage on her ankle.

"Sarah, did something happen?"

"Uh, no, not exactly."

"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?" She's got that sheepish look on her face again.

"Bill and I got tattoos," she mumbles.

"What?" I couldn't possibly have heard that right.

"We, uh, we got tattoos, Tim," Bill says.

"What, the temporary kind? Please tell me you got the temporary kind."

"No, see, it's really cool, and I got it because of you, sort of," Sarah says, pulling the bandage loose to show me. "See, it's Mighty Mouse. Because he's your favorite."

"You took her to a _tattoo_ parlor? What the hell were you thinking, Bill? How do you think the Zumhagens are going to react to this? I can't believe you could be so irresponsible. And Sarah, you should have known better. God, this is terrible." I've got my head in my hands, panic in my voice.

"Tim, really, it's not that big a deal, is it? Even in Utah, kids are getting tattoos these days. It's not like she got her tongue pierced or something--it's just a cute little Mighty Mouse on her ankle. It's not the end of the world."

"I never would have thought you could be so naive, Bill. Ruth, it's time for you to go to bed. And Sarah, I want you to go to your room, too." All three of them are staring at me in shock. Fuck. I probably scared the shit out of them.

"But Tim--"

"No buts, Sarah. Now. Ruthie, let's go read Harry Potter. Bill, Sarah, I'll talk to both of you after I get Ruthie tucked in." I hear the harshness in my voice, but I can't seem to do anything about it. I sit on the sofa for a minute, trying to calm down.

Ruthie's crying when I get into her room, and it takes me several minutes to get her to actually talk to me. She's convinced I don't want Sarah to live with me anymore, afraid that if she does something wrong I won't want her either. It breaks my heart to see her like that, especially knowing it's my own fucking fault for blowing up like that in front of her. I should know better.

"Ruth, believe me, there is nothing that you or Sarah could do that would make me stop loving you, or stop wanting to adopt you. You girls mean more to me than I can tell you, and I love you with all my heart."

"Then why were you so mad at Sarah and Bill?"

"I was mad because I'm worried, Ruthie, worried and scared. It's going to be hard to convince the judge to let me move you from the Zumhagens to another state, and something like Sarah's tattoo might make it even harder. I'm sorry I yelled, sweetie, really, really sorry."

"Is Bill still going to live with you?"

"Definitely. I love him, too, even when I'm mad at him. I know things were pretty scary in Church Canyon--when people got mad, some really bad things happened--but nothing like that is ever going to happen here, I promise you. I will get mad sometimes, at you, or Sarah, or Bill, and you'll get mad at me, too, but we'll talk about it, and we'll figure things out."

"I'm never going to be mad at you!"

I give her a hug and kiss her cheek. "Ruth, it's okay to get mad at people you love. I know it can be scary, but as long as you talk about it, it's okay. I want you to promise me that you'll tell me about what's going on with you, even if you think I'll be mad at you, or if you're mad at me. Can you do that?"

"You won't hit me?"

She looks up at me with big brown eyes, swimming with tears, and I wipe my own eyes as I answer her.

"I will never, _ever_, hit you or hit Sarah. And I will do whatever I can, for the rest of my life, to make sure that no one else ever hits you again. I promise you that, with all my heart."

She hugs me then, and tells me not to be sad. Jesus. Tells _me _not to be sad. I don't deserve her. I tell her again how much I love her, then ask her if she's ready for a couple chapters of The Sorcerer's Stone. She cuddles up to me while I'm reading, all the trust and affection out there in the open, and I have to fight down my overwhelming fear of losing her and concentrate on Hagrid, Hermione, and Harry. Then I tuck her in and go talk to Sarah.

She's waiting in her room, looking a little apologetic and a lot determined.

"I'm sorry, Tim. Please don't be mad at Bill--it was my idea, and I thought you'd like it, because I only wanted Mighty Mouse, because he's your favorite. I thought I could look at it when I was in Utah, and I'd know you were in California, and it would make me feel better."

"I'm glad you want something to remind you of me when you're in Utah, sweetie, but this really wasn't a good idea. Did you think about how your foster parents are going to react?"

"I thought I could cover it up. I mean, I know they won't like it, but is it really that big a deal?"

"Yeah, kiddo, it is. It's going to be hard to get custody of you and Ruth, and this will make it harder. Whether or not I think it's okay for a fifteen year old girl to have a tattoo--which I don't--Sarah, this is about more than that, can you understand that now?"

I can see that she does, because her face falls and she starts to cry. I pull her into a hug, try to reassure her, but I can't lie to her. I can't tell her everything will be all right, because I don't know it will be, and she's had so many disappointments in her life already. I do tell her I love her, and that I'm not going to give up the fight, that no matter what, I'll always be here for her. I tell her I'm sorry I yelled at her, sorry I scared her.

After she's blown her nose and washed her face, I get her to show me the tattoo again. It is small, easily covered by her sock, but I convince her that trying to hide it from her foster parents will only make things worse in the long run. She agrees to tell them the truth and to apologize for doing it without asking them, or even me, for permission. Then I give her another hug, tell her to get some sleep, and make my way back to the bedroom.  
Jesus. Please don't let me fuck up with these kids any more than I already have.

****

Tim looks fucking exhausted when he comes out of Sarah's room, and he's limping much worse than usual. He waves me aside when I go to help him, though. Okay, he's still pissed. I guess he has a right to be--talk about not thinking like a fucking adult. I am one, though, so I follow him into the bedroom and apologize.

"I don't think I'm up for any more apologies tonight, so can we just drop it?"

He sounds even worse than he looks. He grimaces as he gets into bed.

"You were a little hard on her, Tim, and you scared Ruth. Is there something else going on?"

"Besides being worried sick that I've lost any chance at adopting the girls? Besides the fact that Ruth didn't think she could get mad at me, because I might _hit_ her? Just that my back is fucking killing me." He sighs, doing his Detective Angst impression again. Sometimes he just takes everything so fucking seriously. I flash on Joe in that bar in Vancouver saying, "Oh, my life is just so complex." Okay, so Tim's not the only one, but this time I think I've got more perspective than he does.

"I know you're going to insist on being worried, but will you at least let me do something about your back?"  
He sighs. "I'd have to be more of an idiot than I am tonight to pass up one of your backrubs."

"Okay then--shirt off, roll over."

"Bill--" he starts apologetically, but I interrupt him.

"It's okay, Tim. You were right--it was a fucking stupid thing to do. I was having a good time, and I wasn't thinking like a parent. But chill out a little already, okay?"

"You're not their parent. _I'm_ not even their parent. I'm not sure I deserve to be. God, the way I blew up at them--I scared Ruthie half to death."

"Fuck that, Angst Man. You're not perfect. Get the fuck over it. You're going to be their parent, and that means I am, too, sort of. I won't forget that again, and you won't freak out in front of Ruthie again. Now would you please take your fucking shirt off and roll over?"

"Uh, actually, I could use a little help."

"There will never come a day when I will be unwilling to help you take off an item of clothing."

That gets a chuckle, then another grimace as I ease his shirt off. He chuckles again when I go for his jeans. "Hey, I need full access to your lower back," I tell him. He lifts his hips obligingly, smiling as I pull down jeans and boxers together.

"I think you're wearing too many clothes to give an effective back rub," he says, gesturing weakly at my shirt. He must catch a glimpse of the tape or something when I pull it off, because he points at my waistband with raised eyebrows.

"Wait a minute. You said tattoos, plural. I didn't even pay attention, but you got one too?"

"Yeah," I answer, feeling unaccountably nervous.

"Let me see it."

I unbutton my jeans and push them lower on my hips, then gingerly take off the bandage.

"Yours is a lot easier to hide," he remarks.

"I didn't intend for anyone but you to ever see it."

"Well, it could do some more damage to your hardass image, that's for sure."

"It was Sarah's idea."

"Little Miss Mighty Mouse, who's hit adolescence with a bang. Does it hurt?"

"It's a little tender. Not bad."

"I'm guessing that's Mighty Mouse too?"

"You need to put your glasses on."

He does, then leans over to study it closely. I can feel his breath against my skin, and my cock starts a little happy dance. I lean down and plant a quick kiss on the back of his head, where his hair's starting to thin, just a little. He looks up and smiles. Fuck, that smile of his still practically knocks me over.

"You got a Mighty Mouse tattoo, just for me."

"Yeah."

"You really are a putz."

"Yeah."

"Better not wear any of those low-riding jeans. Or let them take one of those sexy half-naked pictures for Rolling Stone."

"You're the only one who gets to see me half-naked."

He runs a finger down my hipbone, then around the outside of the tattoo. He's careful not to touch the inflamed skin, just skirts around it. He glances up through a curtain of hair--I love that it's grown out again, although he's keeping it short in the back and sides--and grins at the expression on my face.

"Tim, I have to tell you, if you want that backrub, you have to stop what you're doing."

He reaches over and places a soft kiss on my belly, just above Mighty's ear, then rolls over carefully, putting his glasses back on the nightstand. I look at him stretched out in front of me and have to take a second to regain control before I can touch him. I try to concentrate on the task at hand--backrub, just give him a backrub--and then give up. I reach out and gently stroke his shoulders, his warm skin, then kiss the nape of his neck. He sighs contentedly, brings up his arms to pillow his head, and winces, muttering "shit" under his breath.

He's obviously pretty damned sore, so I manage to put my happy dick feelings aside for awhile and get to work. And it is work--his back's a fucking mess tonight, and so are his arms, shoulders, and of course his legs. When I ask him what the fuck he did, he admits Ruth got a little overenthusiastic during yoga and jumped on him. So I work on him a long time, gentle but thorough, up and down that long bod of his, until his breathing deepens into sleep. Well, the happy dick can wait a little longer. I pull the covers over him, stroke his hair one more time, turn out the light, pull my pants back up, and go back out to the living room to read for awhile and get my libido back under control.

I've gotten through a chapter of _Buddhism without Beliefs_ when Sarah comes out.

"Hey, kiddo, what are you doing up? You need to get some sleep--is your tattoo bothering you? You need some aspirin?"

"No, I just couldn't sleep."

She gets onto the couch next to me, looking sadder than I've ever seen her. I give her hand a squeeze.

"Worried?"

"I really fucked up, huh?"

"I was the one who fucked up, Sarah. You were just being a normal kid. It was my job to be the adult. And don't swear." She smiles at that, then gets serious again.

"Do you think they'll let Tim adopt us?"

"I don't know, kiddo. It's gonna be a tough fight. Karen thinks we have a shot, but it's going to depend a lot on who the judge is, and how hard the Zumhagens' lawyer goes after me. I'm a definite liability in this, and I made it worse today. No matter what, though, Tim's not going to give up. He loves you girls, and he knows how unhappy you are. I think, even if he can't get the judge to let you move here, he'll find some way to get you into another home, a better one."

"I guess that would be a little better, and at least I only have three more years before I'm eighteen, but Ruthie's still so little. She was born in Church Canyon, you know--I think the only time she's ever been happy was when we were living with Tim. Her father never spent any time with her, and her mom was killed."

"No matter what happens, she'll still have you. Don't sell yourself short--she loves you."

"Yeah, I know. I never really loved any of my real sisters the way I love her."

"But Sarah, when you're with Ruth, sometimes you have to be the adult."

"No tattoos, huh?" she says with a sly smile.

"No tattoos. Now, why don't you get yourself a glass of milk and go back to bed, okay?"

"Okay, Bill. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now go on--get some sleep."

After she's gone, I get ready for bed myself. Tim's still sleeping, but he wakes when I join him and turns to face me.

"How's your back?"

"Better, thanks to you."

"You're welcome, Detective."

"I can't believe you got that tattoo."

"Kind of surprised myself."

"I love you, Rock Star."

"Yeah, well, backrubs, Mighty Mouse, fucking Neil Diamond songs--I guess it's pretty obvious I feel the same way."

"Sorry I fell asleep on you."

"Care to make it up to me?"

"I'd like to."

"Then shut the fuck up and kiss me."

He does, and we wrap our limbs together as lips and tongues meet. We're both aware of the girls sleeping down the hall, so we make love slowly, quietly, tenderly. He rolls onto his back and pulls me on top, and everything lines up, just like it did that first time, almost a year ago now, but it still makes me gasp. Feeling his long arms wrapped around my back, one hand on my ass, urging me on, his lips sucking gently on my ear, my hand around both our cocks, my face buried in the crook of his neck, tasting the sweet saltiness of his skin, feeling his breath turn to gasps as he stiffens and comes, feeling the hot, wet, spurts coating both our erections now, so good, always so good, and then he kisses my neck, puts his hand with mine, runs his thumb over the top, and it's my turn to stiffen and come, not a freight train this time, but so sweet, so tender, so good. So fucking full of love.

I clean us up afterwards, just like I did in Vegas, and it strikes me how amazing it is that a year ago, I didn't know him, had never met him, never kissed him, never watched him sleep, never knew the contours of his skin, his scars, the softness of his hair, the fullness of his lips. And he's apparently thinking the same thing, because he strokes my face and softly says, "A year ago, jesus, Bill, how could it have been less than a year ago?"

"We should go back, end of February, beginning of March, if we can."

"An anniversary trip?"

"It's worth celebrating."

"It certainly is. I love you, Bill Boisy."

"I love you, Tim Bayliss."

Then we sleep, and the next morning I wake again to find him watching me, stroking my hair, waiting for me to open my eyes and see him there, with me, where he belongs. Of course, a few minutes after that Ruth knocks on the door and runs in, hops onto the bed, and generally harangues us until we get up and make her breakfast. We both smile--she's so resilient, it's fucking amazing, but it's great to see her happy this morning. We have to make her go out in the hall while we get dressed, and I wonder for a moment if we'll have to go back to wearing something to bed, like we did in the hospital, when they come to live with us.

Because even after the tattoo, and cautious words from Karen, and all of Tim's doubts, I have this fucking strange optimism these days, and I actually believe he'll win in court. This from the man who used to play songs like "Something's Gonna Die Tonight" and "Who the Hell Do You Think You Are?" Ain't life a bitch? Fuck you, Joe. Bill Boisy is fucking happy. Billy Fucking Tallent and Joe Dick can go fuck themselves.


	4. Welcome to the New Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly unabashed curtainfic--Bill and Tim and their new family.

There are definitely times when he drives me fucking nuts. If I'm in the mood for it, watching him watch Mighty Mouse and eat pizza (veggie pizza, of course) can be a beautiful thing, but it's fucking frustrating to have the TV always on Cartoon Network or ESPN when I want to watch something on IFC or Sundance. He's perfectly capable of an intelligent conversation about any manner of book, but when it comes to visual entertainment, the man is fucking clueless. Can't play the movie game with him because he hasn't seen enough movies that don't suck.

Of course, the kids love watching Mighty Mouse with him, even Sarah. Yeah, they're here. There's a cat, too--she came with the kids, fortunately minus her four kittens. Welcome to my new life.

I used to have this house, which is getting smaller every day, all to myself, except when Billie was visiting. Then Tim joined the mix, definitely a pleasant addition, love him more every day, your basic domestic fucking bliss. I miss him like crazy when we've got a concert; sleep like shit, too. Can't wait to get home to him, wake up with him.

Except for those times, fortunately not too frequent, when he wakes up at the crack of dawn, meditates, eats breakfast, comes back to bed, and doesn't understand why I don't want to talk about Buddhism, or the quality of mercy, or why I shouldn't ever smoke again.

Never mind that the only time I _do_ smoke anymore is at rehearsal, and that's been cut short now that Kat's been successfully inseminated--she and Chelle are almost as annoying in the whole former smoker game as Tim is.

And then, often as not, he proceeds to fall asleep on the couch at 9:30 that night (after watching the Lakers or a cartoon), just when my conversational juices really start flowing.

Then there's the fact that there's still a gun in my house. I've argued with him about it, asking him what the fuck use it is to protect us if it's locked up, which we both agree it has to be. I fucking hate it. Even with trigger locks, ammunition in a separate, locked container, all that, I still fucking hate it. Tim understands why, but he's been carrying a gun for his entire adult life, and it's part of who he is. He's gotten me out to the shooting range with him once or twice, and even though I absolutely refuse to take any shooting lessons, I can see that he's got the kind of gift for sharp-shooting that I have for the guitar. He gets into the zone and just hits everything perfectly, and I can see the pure joy and concentration on his face, and I know I can't ever ask him to give it up.

We both have serious concerns about safety--ours, the kids', shit, even Chelle, Kat and Deeja when we're on tour. The fact that they found a shitload of fucking bombs in Montgomery isn't lost on anyone, and neither is the fact that we continue to get death threats regularly. But there haven't been any more bomb threats, and the fucker they arrested finally gave up a few of his buddies, including one who'd been responsible for several of the death threats. So it's easy to push it to the back of my mind--we've been safe so far, we're doing all we can to stay that way, and we've got to just fucking live our lives.

Living with Tim, despite guns, crazed fundies, and other bumps in the road, is pretty much amazing. I'd live in a band house with him. Fuck, I'd sleep every night in that crappy goat van with a hole in the floor if I had Tim in there with me. Yeah, he hogs the bed, sleeps weird hours, is addicted to bizarre shit like grilled cheese sandwiches and cartoons, and "won't eat anything with a face." He gets moody, especially when I'm gone, although that's gotten better since the kids joined us permanently. He also sees beneath my bad-ass self to the putz beneath, but since that putz is totally head over feet, I don't give a shit. We may bicker over who gets the remote, but in general the close quarters are a definite plus, or at least they were when it was just the two of us.  
But a couple months ago, while we were still waiting for a court date in Utah, Tim got another tearful call from Sarah. This time the foster parents went too fucking far. She lied to Tim--told him she'd told them about the tattoo, and that they were okay with it. Well, she'd been hiding it, but it was getting warmer, and one day she forgot to keep her socks on, and they saw it and practically had a fucking nervous breakdown.

Tim was pissed that she'd lied to him, but even more pissed about how they reacted.

Because, may their God love 'em (I sure as hell don't), they tried to do what they thought was right. They grounded Sarah, made an appointment with a plastic surgeon to have the tat removed, and enrolled her and Ruth in a local "Christian Academy." That was the last fucking straw. They were only there for two nights before she managed to sneak downstairs and call us collect, tattoo still intact.

Fortunately, between Tim finally passing muster with the state of California DCW, Karen's briefs on the in loco parentis stuff, Sarah and Ruth's testimony at a quickly-scheduled hearing, Tim's intention to adopt the girls, and some major string-pulling, we managed to get the girls on a flight to LA in a couple days. Three girls, actually--Ruth, Sarah, and Georgia the cat.

Ruth was so silent for the first few days--didn't say a word to me, barely spoke to Sarah and Tim, but refused to let them out of her sight. Sarah seemed better on the surface, but she had nightmares practically every night, and she and Ruth insisted on sleeping together for the whole first month, until Sarah realized there were some advantages to having her own room. Ruth still goes in there and joins her a couple nights a week, or comes into our room in the middle of the night. She won't talk about what happened in Church Canyon or in St. George, but both she and Sarah are going to see a therapist every week, and it seems to be helping.

Tim's officially their foster parent, but we're working on adoption. Alicia's already drawn up some other stuff for me. He and Billie, and now the girls, are the beneficiaries in my will. Tim's also the legal executor of both my will and the Adena Watson Fund, which has already amassed quite an endowment, thanks to a successful album, recorded in just one week after we got back from Baltimore, and a lot of donations from fans. His name's on some other stuff, too, both for the tax break and because he's family.

One thing that Tim doesn't know about yet has to do with the fact that we live in what's referred to locally as a bungalow, a smallish house (especially when there are three girls there) in one of the most expensive fucking neighborhoods in the world. I'm not sure whatever possessed me to buy a house in Beverly Hills, although I guess the excitement of having more fucking money than I knew what to do with had a lot to do with it. Billy Fucking Hollywood. I'm a bit more sensible about money now than I was right after Joe died--losing him and becoming a father made me grow up some.

I've been worrying about Billie a little, too. So far she's been pretty cool with my new family situation, and at least she has a stable home in Regina, but I don't imagine she's as thrilled by the additions to my life as Ruth is to claim her as an extra sister, especially given all the attention these two abused kids have required. She'll be coming out to visit again next month, and I want to make sure she knows I still love her just as much as I ever did. That she's got a few more people to love her now. I hope she can accept that--I know she likes Tim, and she gets along with Ruth and Sarah.

At any rate, I keep thinking these days about shit like schools and other kids, some open space for them to run around on, and above all some more privacy. Between the yin-yang of zen boy's and my sleep schedules, getting kids off to school, rehearsals, recording, touring, publicity jaunts, not to mention the fact that we both tend to make a lot of fucking noise, pun intended, there's been a bit of a damper lately on a heretofore spectacular sex life.

And truth be told, I'm sick of living in cities. Want to breathe some fresh air, see some mountains--real ones, not the fake ones they have here in sunny southern California. Fresh air, which I can finally appreciate now that I'm barely smoking. Mountains with snow on them, like the ones back home. It's Tim's fault--getting me out in the desert, looking at the full moon and all. Fucking Nature Boy, that's me.

So I've been making some inquiries and doing some research. This weekend, we're finally taking that trip to Las Vegas, just the two of us, and I'm planning on talking to him about moving. Maybe even look at some houses in Flagstaff. But not until after we've made up for a lot of lost time.

****

Bill and I have been planning this trip for months. We were going to go in March, sort of a late anniversary thing, but then Sarah called, three days before we were supposed to leave, and the trip got pushed back, then pushed back again. We're both feeling the strain of sudden parenthood, including the lack of privacy, and I think if we hadn't made the time for this trip, this weekend, both of us would explode.

I'm on edge for another reason. I'd made some plans of my own for our anniversary, but I decided they'd wait until we could get away. Now, as I pack the box next to my yoga mat, I'm wondering if it was prudence or cowardice that made me put it off. I've disrupted Bill's life in so many ways over the last year, including subjecting him to more concentrated domesticity than he's ever encountered before, and I know it's been rough for him to lose the privacy and solitude he was used to. I don't know how he's going to react to what I have for him.

I know I can be annoying--Frank told me that often enough, and he wasn't the only one. And Bill sometimes reminds me of Brodie; he always wants to watch something deep and intellectual on TV. When I want something intellectual, I read a book. Television is for escape--it's the vast wasteland, and that's the way I like it. I have an unfair advantage before Ruth goes to bed, but Miss Mighty Mouse is starting to get into some of the independent (boring) films Bill prefers, so the two of them sometimes gang up on me. I'll go read Harry Potter to Ruth--we're deep into The Goblet of Fire now--and when I come back into the living room they'll be watching something with subtitles, and I'll end up falling asleep on the sofa again.

Sarah still likes watching Mighty Mouse with me, of course, and Bill and I do a pretty good job of taking turns, so I think the two of them are content to put up with me. I still can't believe Bill took her to get that tattoo, although I have to admit it's kind of cute. We're all calling her Mouse these days.

I certainly enjoy Bill's mouse, the one only I get to see. The two of them keep trying to get me to get a matching one, which is _not_ going to happen, even if Sarah continues to play the "father-daughter matching tattoos" angle. I may be adopting her, but she's fifteen years old and fiercely independent, and our relationship seems far from the traditional parent-child mold, at least most of the time.

Ruth, she's a different story. She stopped calling me Tim and started calling me Dad the minute we picked her up at the airport, and that feels amazingly good. She never talks about anything from her past, not even to Sarah, but seems to be a pretty normal, happy kid, now that she's settled in here. She's growing like a weed--she's almost as tall as Sarah already. She and Billie are getting very close, at least from Ruth's perspective--I'm not sure how Billie feels, although she seems to like her.

Gordon and Danny got here tonight, and tomorrow morning we leave for one glorious week. My mom's coming out to LA a couple days before we get back. I hope the room Bill's got us in Vegas has good soundproofing, because I'm looking forward to letting go, with no worries we'll wake the girls. I'm also looking forward to seeing Mom again, for the first time since we were in Baltimore.

I think there will always be a small part of me that can't forgive her, but I can understand her a little more now. I still occasionally have nightmares. Most of them are about Joseph Eisen raping Sarah while I watch, unable to stop him. And Ryland, every once in awhile. But I keep meeting with Stuart every week, and that helps.

Bill, who could sleep through anything, always wakes up when I have one of those dreams. He wakes me up, talks to me about how the girls are safe in their bedrooms, and holds me until I fall back asleep again. When it's a really bad one, the one with all the bodies, or one with Ryland, he gets up with me, walks me over to Sarah's room, and we watch her sleep for awhile, then peek in on Ruth. Thankfully, Sarah isn't having many nightmares anymore. Both girls are seeing a therapist too, the one Gwen recommended (something their foster parents in St. George discouraged, which really pissed me off), and Sarah seems to be healing pretty well, although every now and then when we're watching TV I'll catch her staring at the scars on my leg.

She's doing it again tonight. Today was my weekly yoga session with Paula, and Gordon and Dan arrived as she was leaving, so I'm hanging around with them in my shorts instead of getting right in the shower. I'm showing them how much better I can bend my knee, and I don't realize she's come into the room until I feel her hug me.

"Hey there, Mouse, what's up?" I ask, squeezing back.

"Just wanted to give you a hug."

"I'm going to miss you guys this week, you know. Are you going to read Harry Potter to Ruth for me?"

"Sure. You're gonna call every night, right?"

"Definitely. And you'll have our cell phone numbers--any problem, anything at all, you call us."

"Who's taking Ruth and me to school and stuff? And to see Hannah?" She knows the answer to these questions, but I hear her need for reassurance. Hannah is their therapist.

"Gordon or Danny can take you, and by the time you see Hannah again, my mom will be here, so she can take you, if you want."

"She won't mind?"

"No, she's looking forward to having grandkids to cart around again."

"Does she know?" she asks seriously, and it kills me that she has to ask questions like that at her age.

"No, she doesn't, sweetie. I figured that was your business, and if you wanted to tell her, you could. She knows the general gist of what went on in the Canyon, but she doesn't know specifically what happened to you."

"Okay. Um, Dad?" She's got a shy smile on her face. It's the first time she's called me that, and I pull her into another hug. Then she says, "Have a good time with Bill. You guys deserve it. I'll take good care of Ruthie. No tattoos," she adds with a sly grin.

"We will, Miss Mighty Mouse. And then we'll come home and go to your soccer game, okay?"

"Yeah. That'll be good."

"And listen--I know the past year has been really hard, but I hope you know how much you and Ruthie mean to me. Being a dad, that was something I always wanted, but I wasn't sure it would ever happen. I couldn't have asked for better kids than you two, for a better family than we have. I love you."

"I love you too, Tim. Dad. And Ruthie and me, we love Bill, too."

"Yeah? That's good, because so do I." She laughs at that, gives me another hug, and goes off to find Georgia the cat. Bill comes up, sits beside me.

"What was that all about? You look really happy."

"She called me 'Dad.'"

"Fuck, Tim, that's great," he says, grinning, then kisses me. And I kiss him back, hard, so fucking happy, so amazed that I have this man and these kids in my life, that we are a completely nontraditional, loving, surprisingly well-adjusted, committed family. My family--Bill, Sarah, Ruth, and Billie.

****

We fly first class, something I've grown complacent about, I guess, but Tim's still thrilled by the attention we get, the fact that we're seated and offered drinks and snacks before the rest of the plane has boarded. He's such a little kid sometimes--maybe because he didn't have an opportunity for a real childhood. Like me. Whatever the horrors in his past, I still get a kick out of how excited he gets about new things, so I reach over, give his hand a squeeze, and he turns that boyish grin on me, the one that still takes my fucking breath away.

Then he whispers something in my ear, and I stop thinking about him as a little kid. Fuck, I can't wait until we get to that hotel room.

The flight seems to last forever, and then we have to deal with getting our luggage and a cab. Tim's insisting on walking, which is good, but also bad, because even though he's a lot stronger, he's never going to be able to walk normally, and between that, the crowds, and the fact that he's also insisting he can carry his own bag, it takes him awhile, and he gets really frustrated with his lack of progress. I finally persuade him to sit and wait for me while I flag down a cab. When I come back to get him, he's chatting with a couple teenagers. They stand up, blushing, as I approach, and I do the Billy Tallent thing, sign some autographs. They want Tim's autograph, too, and we pose for a picture with them.

It's another delay, but I can see how tickled Tim is that he's part of the whole thing. I guess the public service announcements, the video, and the interview with Tim Russert have made him more recognizable than either of us realized. I explain we've got a cab waiting, and they apologize for keeping us. Then the older one (they're sister and brother) thanks us. She's got a serious look on her face now, and I know she's thanking us for something more than the autographs and picture--this is another kid who's been abused; the ones that come up to Tim usually are. Later, he'll tell me what she told him before I got there, a story like so many others. He gives her his card, tells her to get in touch with the Fund for some help, and gives both of them a hug.

Fuck, I love this man.

Finally, the cab pulls up at the MGM Grand, and finally we're back in room 1245, the same room I stayed in last year. I didn't tell Tim where we'd be staying, and I hear his breath catch when he realizes. I give him my best wicked grin as the doorman opens the room and takes our bags in. Then I get rid of the doorman as quickly as I can, and when I've got him out, gotten the do not disturb sign up, I turn around and Tim is there, hands framing my face. He's already taken his shirt off, and as he starts to kiss me, his hands move to mine.

"C'mon, let's get to bed," I say, gesturing for him to lean on me--he doesn't need his cane when he's got his arm around me. It's an awkward trip, because we can't keep our hands or lips off each other, and we keep stopping to shed pieces of clothing, but eventually we make it. We take the rest of our clothes off quickly, pull the covers back, and lay together.

We've both been waiting for this, wanting this, but for the moment we're content in each other's arms. Neither one of us speaks, not aloud, because we don't need to--the love is there in our eyes, in every gentle touch of his fingers on my face, my lips on his. He taught me this--this gentle, tender, sweet way of being with someone, of being with him--in this very room, on this very bed, over a year ago.

He's thinking the same thing, because he says, smiling tenderly, "So, you're not uncomfortable, are you? It's okay, you don't mind, you're not freaked out?"

"I'm not freaked out, Tim. I want you. I love you."

"I love you. I want you." His voice is husky now, and when he leans in to kiss me again, his lips press harder, his tongue pushing its way into my mouth. I kiss him back, hard and fucking hot, and reach my hand down to his dick, leaking already, just like mine. I know what we both want, so I gesture for him to turn on his side.

"Wait," he says, "Not like that. I want to see you."

I kiss him again. "What about your leg?" It's tough for him even when I'm behind him, but at least then he can keep his right leg relatively straight. It's still painful for him to bend it.

"Yoga is all about flexibility," he says with a grin, "and I've been working very hard lately. I can do it." And with a deep breath he bends his legs back, wraps them around my waist.

"Jesus, Tim, give me a minute, here," I say, laughing, reaching for the lube. And after a few careful minutes of preparation, I'm pressing in to that tight, welcoming heat. We're moving together slowly at first, then faster, and I know neither one of us is going to last long. But that's what we need now, so we both go for it. I stroke his dick, he reaches back and enters me with his fingers, and our tongues tangle deep, both of us groaning, moaning, grunting, as I pound into him and come hard, him following me a couple seconds later.  
When he can talk again, he grins at me and says, "Damn, I needed that."

"Happy to oblige, any time," I answer him.

We get cleaned up, put on some sweats, order some room service, and just relax for awhile, enjoying the quiet. I get up, start unpacking our stuff, and Tim gets this nervous look on his face. I ask him what's wrong.

"Nothing, really. It's just, uh, I have an anniversary present for you, in my bag, so could you hold off on the unpacking for a minute?"

"Sure." I'm curious, so I sit down on the bed again while he digs through his bag, pulls out his mat, and then unearths a small, wooden box. He brings it back over to the bed and sits down next to me, looking serious.  
He takes my hand.

"I love you, Bill, and I love our life together. Our family. I wanted you to know how much you mean to me, and this seemed like the way to do it. So, um, happy anniversary."

He gives me the box, our hands touching over the lid as I open it. I can feel his trembling. Inside are two plain, silver bands, nestled together, one slightly larger than the other. My hands are shaking now, too, as I take out the rings. They're engraved with our initials.

"Are--are you asking me to marry you, Tim?" A couple years ago I would have openly scoffed at the idea of ever marrying anyone, much less another man, but I'm not that person anymore.

He nods slowly. "Yeah. Till we're 104, Bill. I mean, we don't have to have any big ceremony or anything, if you don't want to. Just putting that ring on your finger is all I need."

"But if I wanted a ceremony?" I can see the joy in his face when I ask him. He fucking wants that. He wants to fucking marry me.

"Well, I've always thought you'd look incredible in a tuxedo," he says, his eyes bright. "And the girls, they could be, well, I don't know what the word would be, but you know they'd love it. There are some monks at the Zen Center in LA who could perform the ceremony, or we could just write our own vows. I know the whole publicity thing would be hard to manage, but fuck, Bill, I think it would be great, don't you?"

"The only problem I have with it is that I want to put this fucking ring on your finger right now," I say, my voice breaking. "Yes, Tim, it would be great. Yes, Tim, I will marry you, and I will wear a fucking tuxedo and walk down the fucking aisle and let the whole fucking world know just how much of a fucking freak I really am. Bill Fucking Boisy, former punk, marrying the love of his fucking life."

****

I smile at his harsh words, brush a tear from the corner of his eye. When Bill's overcome by emotion, he swears even more than usual. I take the smaller ring from his palm and place it on his finger, then bring his hand up to my lips. He does the same for me.

Then we make love again, slowly, tenderly, savoring each touch, each kiss. When he sees that I'm close, he takes my hand again, kisses the ring, tells me he loves me, and I come inside him, rocked to the core by my love for him and his for me.

****

I'm released three days after my eighteenth birthday. I'm not sure what to do first--go to California? To Arizona? Back to Utah? I've got names of contacts in Big Water, Page, Flagstaff, and some small towns in California. But I've never been to California, never been on my own before. God will be with me, but where does he want me to go?

Of course, the social worker and the parole board make me pick one place. I might be recognized in Page or Big Water, and they might be suspicious if I want to go back there. There's still a small chance I could be recognized in Flag, but I decide it's worth the risk. My holy Father has friends there, friends the government doesn't know about.

So I tell them I'll go to Flagstaff. The social worker gives me a hug when I leave, and I play the dutiful innocent and promise to keep in touch. I get a bus ticket, some clothes, a checking account with a small amount of money in it, courtesy of the Adena Watson Memorial Fund, believe it or not--if Timothy knew who got some of his money, I don't think he'd be very happy--and names of the social worker and parole officer I'll be working with.   
It's good to smell the high desert again after all those months at the Federal Detention Center in Seattle. I don't see how anyone can stand the humidity there, the thickness of the air. I'll wait a week or two, get established in my new job at the coffee shop, before I make contact. It's good to be close to home again. I can tell God is with me. There will be time.


	5. Navajo Tacos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Househunting in Flagstaff.

We decide to wait to tell the kids until we get home, so when we call that night we just tell them we're having a good time, that we miss them, and find out about the minutiae of their days, first Sarah and Ruth, then Billie up in Regina. It's difficult not to say anything, though--every few minutes I catch a glimpse of silver, on my hand or his, and it's all I can do not to shout it from the fucking rooftops. I'm distracted, and my kids (makes me warm inside to say that) call me on it, accuse me of not paying attention, but they're laughing when they do it, so I know it's all right. It's not as if they don't know me and my tendency to go off into the ether.

We don't leave the hotel for a couple glorious days, don't even leave the room except for trips down to the pool. Swimming's supposed to be good physical therapy, and Bill says I need to spend some time in the sun, but I think it's mainly so he can get me to put sunscreen on him. Hey, I can get behind that, no problem. Besides, he has to put sunscreen on me, too, which is just fine by me, for the most part. I'm uncomfortable being in public in swim trunks, exposing the leg and all my other scars for all to see--I don't want to frighten anybody.

Bill never seems to notice any of it--his hands cover my skin with the same gentle strokes, no matter where they are, no matter that I don't think scars can get sunburned.

At any rate, he seems to enjoy putting it on, and I certainly enjoy returning the favor. Then we get to wash it off together in the shower. The swimming is good for me--I'm getting stronger every day. And in the water, sometimes, I can forget for a little while just how fucked up my leg really is. In the water, it doesn't seem to matter.

Bill looks damned good with a tan, lounging in his trunks, sunglasses on, every inch the Rock Star. My rock star. He doesn't get in the water much, just to cool off now and then, but when he does, those baggy trunks clinging to his dripping body, if I'm not already in the water, I usually get in quickly, before I let everyone poolside know just what he does to me.

One morning, our third one there, over breakfast, Bill asks me about Flagstaff, whether I liked it.

"I didn't really spend much time there. Just met Eisen, set up the move, that sort of thing. I noticed it was really beautiful there, but I was so focused on going undercover that I don't remember much else."

"Let's go."

"To Flagstaff?"

"Yeah. I'm kind of sick of Vegas, aren't you? Don't you want to breathe some mountain air? Eat some Navajo fucking tacos?"

"Sure. Let's go breathe some mountain air," I say, laughing. "Do you even know what's in Navajo tacos?" I can't say no to him when he's grinning at me like that, practically quivering with energy and excitement. So we rent a jeep and head east on I-40, Bill singing "Route 66" under his breath, playing word games with me.

It only takes a few hours to get there. And Flagstaff really is beautiful, even more than I remembered. The mountains, the San Francisco Peaks, are spectacular. There are more trees than I've seen anywhere in the southwest, and not just pine trees, but maples and aspens as well. More than that, it's actually a pretty cool town, with a lot going on, and a college-town, progressive vibe. We spend a day driving around Wupatki and Sunset Crater, getting out now and then for a short walk, then browsing on Beaver Street, where Bill buys a cowboy hat that looks strangely like it belongs on his head.

That night, over dinner (he has a Navajo taco, which turns out to be taco meat on Navajo sweetbread), he tells me he wants to move here.

"To Flagstaff?" I ask, aware I'm repeating myself, but I can't think of anything else to say.

"Look, Tim, we both know that Beverly Hills is a fucking stupid place to live, especially with kids. Not if we want them to have a chance at a normal life, with normal friends, instead of fucking 90210 Hollywood bullshit. It doesn't have to be Flagstaff, not if you want to go somewhere else, but I really like it here. The house is too small, but it would sell for a lot, and we could get something great, with a lot of land, you know? I don't know for sure, but I bet there's a zendo in Sedona, and that's only 45 minutes away; there might even be one here. And Gwen's pretty much running the show for the Fund--you could telecommute, and come out to LA with me for board meetings."

His enthusiasm is just as infectious as it was that morning, and I'm powerless to say no when he's grinning at me like that. So the next day, we start looking for a house. We meet with a realtor over breakfast in a great diner, one where Bill says he took Gordon, Dan, Susanna, Elizabeth, and Cassie after he got them out. We don't say anything to the girls yet, but we're both excited.

We don't find any houses that suit that day, or the next. By the third day, I'm feeling discouraged--real estate is in short supply in northern Arizona. Everything's part of a National Forest or a reservation. But then the realtor asks us if we're willing to build, and exactly how much land were we interested in, anyway? And we seem like environmentally minded folks, and of a philanthropic bent. She's heard about the Adena Watson Fund, thinks it's wonderful what we did for those kids from Utah.

It turns out that our asswipe Republican president has decided to cut back the borders of the Kaibab and Coconino National Forests, allow some private development. It's a pilot project at this point--only a thousand acres or so. Earth Island Institute is trying to get money together to buy the parcel outright, put an easement on it, make a wildlife sanctuary, but funding is pretty tight with the current recession. She's heard they're looking for an investor, one who might be willing to buy the whole parcel and keep it basically pristine. If they can find someone like that, who might just build, say, one ecologically sound house, instead of a whole development, well, that would be great.

The date for the sale hasn't been set yet, but she can show us the land, if we're interested. And we could work out a deal with Earth Island--her cousin works for them. I look over at Bill, expecting him to express regret, but his eyes are bright, and he's nodding, tells her yes, we're interested.

Now I've always been someone who appreciates open space. I look forward to the day when my leg's strong enough for fly-fishing again, if it ever is. But I've never thought of Bill as anything other than a city boy, despite his enthusiasm for the Grand Canyon trip, despite how much fun we had at Wupatki and Sunset Crater and the other national parks we've taken the girls to. He told me once he'd been through incredible country in western Canada without really paying much attention, because he'd been drunk most of the time.

He admits he's turning into Nature Boy. He's wearing a Ramones t-shirt with his standard too-large pants, and biker boots with his cowboy hat, but the look works for him. He keeps talking about how good the air smells, insisting it's not just because he's not smoking.

The land is a little north of Flag, heading up in elevation but still a distance from the Snow Bowl. We get off 180 onto an unpaved Forest Service road and drive for a couple miles. The creeks are still full from the spring melt, and I'm wondering if there are any trout. We've got the windows open, and Bill's grinning non-stop--so am I. We pull over next to the creek, which the realtor tells us is actually the Schultz River, and we walk around. There's a clearing right near the river, with an incredible view of Humphries Peak.

"Can you imagine waking up to that every morning?" he asks, leaning into me.

"It's beautiful, Bill, but are you serious about this? Have you ever lived anywhere but the city? And what about rehearsals, recording, touring--this is a little off the beaten track, you know."

"We'll build a studio. It's only a four hour drive to Vegas. Only two hours to Phoenix. Easy to catch a flight to LA."

"This place must get a lot of snow in the winter. And no limos. You ready to take the girls to school in a jeep?"

"Won't need to--you'll be driving by then." He's got the cocky Billy Tallent grin trained on me, full bore, and as usual I can't help but smile back at him.

"We'd certainly have a lot of privacy," I say. "Jesus, Bill, how much will this cost?"

"I don't know. I guess it depends on what we can work out with Earth Island, and with the government. Do retired secret agent heroes get any special discounts? Can you give Senator Lieberman a call again?"   
In the end, we agree to meet with EII, and I get the name of someone at the Parks Service from Bartlett, see what I can find out. In a month, if it all works out, we'll be in possession of 1000 acres in northern Arizona, working on plans for the house. And planning a wedding.

****

God has had his eye on me. I couldn't believe it when I saw Timothy with his lover, walking casually down Beaver Street, right in front of me. Timothy moves slower than he used to, thanks to my Holy Father, but he and that heathen musician are laughing and smiling. Boisy looks right at me, but of course he wouldn't recognize me, and Timothy has eyes only for him.

I follow along behind them, trying to catch their conversation. Yes, God is with me indeed--Timothy and his lover are moving to Flagstaff. Then I hear another word, a word I never thought to hear from Timothy's lips again. This summer, he and Boisy plan the ultimate perversion--they will hold a marriage ceremony. A wedding, making a mockery again of the covenants he pledged to Sarah, to Ruth. And to me.

I will not permit this. Faith in God and my Holy Father has earned me the right. There will be no escape this time. My Father has decreed that they should die, and I will carry out his will. I will be worthy of Him.  
God is with me.

****

We're walking down Beaver Street again, our last evening before we head back to California in the morning. The sun's still up, the sky is clear, and there are a lot of people doing just what we're doing--strolling up and down, maybe doing some shopping, figuring out where they want to eat dinner. You can hear the trains coming through every now and then, and live music from some of the bars.

And I'm walking down Beaver Street with Tim, wearing his ring on my finger, on my right hand for now, and he's wearing his on his right hand--I can see it catch the sun every now and then. I'm completely fucking overwhelmed by what's happened in the past week, the incredible joy I feel. I turn to look and see he's looking right back at me, and it seems perfectly natural to take his hand in mine as we walk.

"When do you think we should hold the ceremony?" he asks, smiling at me.

"If we could have it at the new house, that would be great. I don't know how fast they'll be able to build it--maybe by the end of the summer?"

"What are we going to do about the Grand Canyon trip? I know we were planning on just the three of us, and I think it's probably impossible to get two more tickets. It might be nice as sort of a honeymoon, just the two of us, but I don't want Billie to feel badly, either."

"You know, she's been feeling a little left out, I think. Tell you what. What if we send all three girls on the trip, instead of us and Billie, and then get married after they get back? That way they'd have some girl time together, and we wouldn't have to make a choice about whether or not to take one of them with us. Sarah's responsible enough to keep the other two in line."

"You won't be too disappointed? I know how much you were looking forward to that trip."

"We're moving here. It's not like there won't be other opportunities--maybe we'll go next year, or the year after. Fuck, Tim, would we be able to enjoy our honeymoon in a tent, with campers around, and no running water? No shower?"

"You have a point, Mr. Boisy."

"No shit, Detective."

"Where do you want to go? You've seen Baltimore, but I've never been to Vancouver. Shit, I've never even been to Canada."

"We'll have to remedy that--Vancouver, or Toronto, or Quebec City maybe."

"That sounds great. How do you think Billie's going to handle all of this?"

"I'm not sure. She's had me all to herself for the last five years. Of course, for the first six years of her life she didn't have a fucking clue I existed. I know she loves her mom and Evan, and she's always been pretty content with the visitation schedule we worked out, and in general she's a pretty level-headed kid--I guess we'll just have to see."

"How will Mary react?"

"Fuck if I know. She's never been thrilled about my sexual preferences, but I think she accepts them. Accepts you. Fuck, she'd have to be blind not to see that you're a positive influence."

I look around and see we've attracted some attention--a few kids, and some adults, are staring, some more obtrusively than others. I give the bunch of them a huge fucking smile and pull Tim closer, put my arm around his waist. He looks down at me and smiles fondly.

"You sure that's a good idea?" he asks.

"Don't give a shit either way. If a bunch of homophobes wants to be offended by two men walking down the street arm in arm, it's no fucking skin off my nose. We're moving here. We're getting married. They'll just have to get used to it."

He laughs and puts his arm around my shoulders.

"You know, it's our last night here," he whispers into my ear. "Tomorrow night we'll be at home, with the kids, and my mom will be there, too. Tonight, it's just us."

"Let's head back to the hotel, order some room service, what do you say? And if you don't want to cause a scene, I'd suggest you move a little quicker, wuss."

He may need that cane, but he has some fucking long legs, and when he's properly motivated, he can still move fast, kind of hopping, especially with my help. And I know how to motivate him. We're back in the room in short order. Dinner can wait.

I start to strip the minute we get the door closed, and so does he. I take my new hat off so I can pull off my shirt, but Tim grabs it and puts it back on my head.

"Like my hat, do you?"

"Tell me the truth--you've worn a cowboy hat before, haven't you?"

"The west is the best, Timmy. At least I don't wear a buckskin jacket with fringe, or a genuine cowhide vest, complete with hair, like Johnny always does."

"It looks great on you--very sexy. It would look stupid on me, though."

The only response I could possibly make to that is to take the hat off and put it on his head. He's down to his jeans, the top button undone, feet bare, a little stubble visible, sitting on the bed with his bum leg stretched out. The hat's no stupid ten gallon tourist bauble--it's light brown, with a brim only a little larger than the one Joe used to have. I take a step back, then move forward to tip the brim down just a little over his forehead before moving back again. Yeah, I was right. It looks perfect. He looks up at me kind of shyly from under the brim, and jesus what a sight that is.

"Stupid, right?" he asks.

"No, jesus, Tim. Definitely not stupid. Fucking hot--take a look in the mirror if you don't believe me." I help him up and over to the mirror, enjoying the warmth of his bare arm on my shoulders, and enjoying the sight of the two of us in the mirror even more. We've both got tans. Tim's arms, shoulders, and chest are rock solid and very nicely defined, and my upper body is in better shape than it's been in years, although my arms are still spindly compared his. You can see Mighty's ears peaking over my waistband, and Tim reaches down, unbuttons the top couple buttons, and runs his finger down and around the tattoo. I close my eyes at the sensation, then open them again to see Tim's looking back at mine through the mirror.

"We make one hell of a sexy couple, don't we?" he asks with a smile. There's a little catch to his voice that lets me know he's just as turned on as I am. Well, that and what I can see outlined in his jeans.

His finger's been joined by a couple more, and I'm liking what they're doing. So I grab onto his belt loops and pull him closer, working his fly as we kiss. It doesn't take long before I've got his jeans pulled down to his thighs. He's not wearing any boxers today, which is a very nice surprise--usually I'm the only one to go commando. I know how much he likes it, so I guess he figured I'd like it, too. He's right.

He's trying to get me stripped, but I'm not letting him. I've got a plan, and if he does much more with those long fingers of his, I'm not going to last long enough. So I break off kissing him and point my finger at him, shaking my head solemnly, grabbing his hands and pushing them behind him. Then I back away for a minute, intending to grab a pillow from the bed. I have to stop and stare.

He's leaning back against the dresser, breathing hard, staring at me hungrily. The hat's still on, although it's angled back now, exposing more of his beautiful, flushed face, the long line of his throat. He's got his hands clenched behind him on the rim of the dresser, and I can see his back and ass in the mirror, even the beads of sweat on those broad fucking shoulders. His dick is bobbing a little with his breathing, swollen and red and leaking a little, and I can feel mine twitch in response.

"You just gonna stand there, or are you going to get back here where you fucking belong?" he asks gruffly.

"Just admiring the view," I say with a groan. "Jesus, you are so fucking hot."

I take a breath, grab the pillow, and drop it at his feet. He grabs my arms and pulls me in for one hell of a kiss, then lets me go so I can kneel in front of him. I take him in my hand first, stroking gently, looking up as he leans his head back and moans. Then I tease him a little with the tip of my tongue. He has to support himself against the dresser with one hand, but he brings the left one over to stroke my cheek. I turn and pull one long finger into my mouth, and he moans again.

"Fuck, Bill," he groans, and that's all I need to hear. Truth is, I love blowing him. Joe used to demand it, fucking order me to do it, holding my head in a tight grip as he fucked my mouth and throat, barely giving me a chance to breathe. He got off on it, no question, and I got off too, on the fact that I was the one he wanted, on the few moments after he came, when he was almost tender, bringing me off with his hands and going to sleep with his arm around me possessively.

But Tim--he loves it, no question, but he never demands it, never even asks for it. I've told him a fair amount about Joe, and he's a little sensitive about it, wants to avoid anything that might remind me of the nastier aspects of those years, that twisted love. So when I take him in my mouth, he lets me take over, as much as he can. He'll run his fingers through my hair, and every once in awhile he'll thrust a little, when he can't help himself, but in general he just relaxes and lets me do my thing. And I know just how he likes it, can read what he wants from the noises he makes, the way his hand is clenched behind him, the feel of him thickening and tightening when he's close, the taste of his sweat, the taste of him coming.

So I feel those happy putz feelings once again as I take him in, first just the tip, sucking gently, running my tongue around the edge, getting a good taste before I let him in all the way. I didn't have any choice about that with Joe, either--he didn't give a fuck that I was choking and gagging, and it took awhile before I didn't panic when I felt him thrusting up into my throat. But thanks to all that, I can do this for Tim, knowing he's given me complete control, and I'll never have to worry about choking, or not being able to breathe.

He usually doesn't last long when we do this, and this time is no exception. I can feel him getting close, so I hum a little, press my knuckle up behind his balls, and feel him start to pulse. He shouts as he comes hard, and his hand tightens a little in my hair, then loosens immediately with an apologetic stroke to my temple.

When I look up again, he's still got the hat on. He pulls me up for another kiss, then pushes me back towards the bed. I grab the hat and put it back on my head, grinning at him, pulling my jeans off. Then I back up the rest of the way and sit on the bed, spreading my legs apart and giving him my best come hither look. He kicks the pillow over, hitches his way to the bed, grabbing at my outstretched hand, then drops to his knees in front of me.  
Now, Tim hasn't had as much practice at this as I have, but he more than makes up for it in enthusiasm. Doesn't hurt that he's got a fucking huge mouth, either. Not to mention a very talented tongue. My original thought was fucking his ass, not his mouth, but I have no complaints, none whatsoever. The sight of him down there, the back of his neck, his broad shoulders, combined with the feel of that mouth around me, his hair tickling the insides of my thighs, and I don't last any longer than he did. Which is probably good, because even with a pillow, I don't like what kneeling on the floor does to his leg. Not that anything like that occurs to me until after I've come hard into his mouth.

Once there's blood flowing to my brain again, though, I help him up and onto the bed. We stay there for awhile, just fucking cuddling, if you can believe it, and then we order some room service and cuddle some more while we call the kids and wait for the food. All in all, it's been pretty much a perfect fucking day.

****

On the plane ride back, we're talking over ideas for the new house. I mention that I've never owned a piece of property--always rented, never even lived in a house except when I was a kid, and in Church Canyon, and of course now.

"You're wrong," Bill tells me. "You do own a piece of property."

"No, I didn't own anything in Church Canyon--that was just part of my cover, you know that."

"That's not what I meant, freak. I put your name on the deed for the Beverly Hills house a couple months ago. We own it jointly."

"What?"

"Don't look so shocked, Timothy. Beyond the obvious reasons, it's actually a tax break for me--for us--because your salary and your pension and your investments combined still put you in a lower tax bracket than I'm in. You should pay more fucking attention to the stuff Alicia and Ron have you sign, you know."

"The obvious reasons?"

He turns to look me in the eye. "Things happen. I did it after Montgomery. Changed my will, too--did that in December."

Comprehension dawns.

It's strange, maybe, but we've never really talked about money. My hospital bills, physical therapy, all that was covered by insurance and disability--Bartlett told me not to worry about it, and I didn't. But my paychecks were automatically deposited in my account in Baltimore the whole time I was undercover, my pension checks from Baltimore CID, too, and now my pension checks from the bureau and my salary from the Fund are going to the same place, and I've just been ignoring that aspect of my life, coasting along like some sort of kept man. Didn't even invest the money from Meldrick buying my share of the bar.

It's more than a little embarrassing to realize Bill's thought all this through and made reasonable decisions while I've been content with complete ignorance. I know much more about the financial status of the Adena Watson Memorial Fund than I do about my own finances, much less Bill's. And I need to change my will, too.

"What else have I signed?" I ask weakly.

"Well, I had Ron take a look at your investments, if you could call one IRA and a mutual fund investments--do you have any idea how much money you had wasting away in simple savings? You do remember that you signed a power of attorney when you were in the hospital, don't you?"

"Uh, now that you mention it--" It was probably the second or third day in Phoenix, and I was in pretty bad shape, still asleep more than I was awake. I remember Bill asking me to sign some stuff so that he could take care of whatever needed taking care of. I signed it, then promptly forgot about it.

"And did you think about the fact that tax day came and went? Jesus, Tim, I was wondering if you were ever going to get a fucking clue." At my shocked face, he says reassuringly, "Don't worry, Ron filed for both of us. And invested your savings in a couple different green mutual funds. You made some substantial donations, too, since I figured you could afford them now, and they gave you a little tax break. You're making more money than you have in the past, between two pensions and your salary from the Fund. I hope the Zen Peacemakers Order, the Green Party, and Greenpeace meet with your approval. Really, Tim, I thought you _had_ read the stuff you were signing, but I guess I overestimated you."

"And I totally underestimated you. I don't know what to say--thank you."

"Look, I may be stupid where fifteen year olds and tattoos are concerned, Tim, but I wouldn't have made it this far if I didn't pay attention to business. Believe me, living in a fucking van with a cokehead either kills you or cures you where money's concerned. Unlike you, I spent half my life without a regular paycheck. Fuck, I spent half my life with jack and shit, and once I started actually making money, I made sure I'd be okay long-term, despite stupid decisions like buying a house in fucking Beverly Hills. I made sure Billie'd be okay, and now I'm making sure you and Ruthie and Sarah will be, too."

"Thank you," I say again. "Jesus, Bill--"

"You and me, til we're 104, remember?"

"I remember."

He looks at me again, searchingly.

"Does it bother you?"

"Does what bother me?"

"The money, the fact that I sort of took over."

"The fact that I'm a kept man?" I say, hiding a smile.

"Tim, you are _not_ a fucking kept man--"

"I know that, putz. And maybe it should bother me, but it doesn't. You're obviously one hell of a business man along with a hell of a musician, and why shouldn't I take advantage of that? I'm pretty stupid where money's concerned sometimes; you're not. You're going to have to speak up more in board meetings."

"You have your own assignment, you know."

"What's that, Money Bags?"

"That's not buddies. Security. As long as you keep us safe, I'll keep us in grilled cheese and cable TV."

"Deal. On one condition."

"What's that?"

"I think you know."

"Unlimited sexual favors?"

"And I thought I was the detective."

"It'll be a hardship, but I think I can manage, as long as I get some favors in return."

"Of course. I am your kept man, after all."

"I'm calling for a limo to pick us up."

"Now _there's_ an idea with some merit. Unlike you, I've never done it in a limo."

"What better way to spend the hours in fucking traffic than fucking in traffic? Now shut up for a minute--I have to call Mark."

I watch him as he uses the skyphone, long elegant fingers dialing the number, cowboy hat perched on top of his spiked hair. He schmoozes with Mark for a few minutes, getting the latest word on how many millions of copies Adena's Song has sold, and then arranges for a limo--"a nice one, Mark, not some fucking cheap model, and a good driver, like that Stan guy, if he's available--" and then he grins and winks at me as he says, "someone with some discretion, understand? I thought you would. Yeah, thanks. Where the fuck else would he be, Mark, jesus? I'll tell him."

He hangs up after giving Mark our flight information, then turns to me. "Mark says hello."

After he puts the phone back, I catch his hand in mine and play with his ring. I really want to kiss him, and I can tell he feels the same by the way he's staring at my mouth and licking his lips. He looks up and smiles in recognition at my expression.

"You're looking a little hungry, Tim. You want me to see if the flight attendant can bring you something to eat?"

"I can wait until later. After all, the limo will be fully stocked, won't it?"

He nods and plants a soft kiss on my palm. "Fully fucking stocked, I assure you." And I have to squirm a little in my seat. I should know better than to wear these jeans, I really should. But I know Bill likes the way I look in them. He sees me squirm and runs his thumb along his chin, hiding a smile.

I make like I'm going to whisper something, and he leans over obligingly. Before I say anything, though, I run the tip of my tongue quickly around the back of his ear, then suck lightly on the lobe. "It better be a stretch limo," I whisper, then lean back and watch as he reaches down to adjust himself. Watching doesn't help my own situation any--my jeans are tighter now than they were a moment ago--but it's worth it.

Sex in a limo turns out to be worth it, too, even though it's a little awkward. I feel a little weird, knowing the driver, whose name is indeed Stan, is up there behind the wheel. I mean, it's got to be pretty obvious what's going on back here, even with the soundproofing and the privacy window. But it certainly makes the drive home enjoyable.

A few years ago, right after the Araber died, I had a job offer with a security firm in LA. For awhile, I seriously considered taking it--thought I'd enjoy living the southern California lifestyle. But I never could have imagined this. Sex in a limo with a rock star, incidentally male, who I was quite willing to spend the rest of my life with--the Tim Bayliss from four or five years ago would have laughed his ass off. Even a couple years ago, I never would have believed I was capable of this kind of commitment, this kind of relationship with another person, much less adopting a couple kids along the way. But there it is, and here I am, heading down the road to our home.


End file.
